


A Pack of Wolves

by BarbaraKaterina



Series: A Promise Fulfilled [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Female Friendship, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, R Plus L Equals J, Warg Bran Stark, not everything is great but some things are better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 61,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26627683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbaraKaterina/pseuds/BarbaraKaterina
Summary: When Eddard Stark arrives at Winterfell after the rebellion, he has to choose between his little nephew and his new wife.What if he chose Jon, firmly and unequivocally, from the beginning? What if he actually fulfilled the promise he gave to his sister?AU of the books.
Relationships: Barbrey Dustin & Jon Snow, Barbrey Dustin & Ned Stark, Barbrey Dustin & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Bran Stark, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish & Catelyn Tully Stark
Series: A Promise Fulfilled [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983625
Comments: 501
Kudos: 362
Collections: A Song in Another Key





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A note on the point where this story parts from canon, which is covered in this chapter: I don’t think Catelyn is some kind of terrible monster. She has her own bad sides, yes, just like any other asoiaf character. Worse than some, better than others. She is also, like everyone, a product of her environment. And while I do think that the choice Ned makes here is, in itself, the more moral one compared to the one that he made in the books – because a baby should always take precedence over an adult, whatever the situation – it doesn’t follow that it was done well, or that all other decisions that followed from that in this story were so great. Just like in the books, he could have handled it better, only here it is Cat who pays the price for it, not Jon. So there will be a lot of POVs here who are very unsympathetic towards Catelyn, but it doesn’t mean it’s my opinion, and we will have her own POV to see the other side of things. Still, I understand that if Cat is your favourite, this might not be a story for you, because of all that negativity (plus she’s lived a very different life, so you might not like what happened to her as a consequence).
> 
> I think that if he hadn’t just lost most of his family, Ned would have been in a better shape and able to somehow mediate between Cat and Jon and find a balance, a way out of it. But he’s exhausted, and underneath that angry at everything. Here, it shows by being completely uncompromising.
> 
> As for the structure of the story, I decided to follow GRRM pretty closely in not only ‘alternating POV’ approach, but in actually following his order of chapters, only with some characters swapped in a way that makes sense for this story. Also, prologue and epilogue characters aren’t doomed to die, just in case you were worried after reading this bit.

The North and Winterfell were exactly like Catelyn expected them to be in many ways: cold, and vast, and grim.

In some ways, however, it was very much unlike it. Winterfell was much bigger, for one, much bigger that Riverrun even, which she never would have expected. And there was one thing very unlike anything she’d thought she would see arriving into her new home: her husband’s bastard son.

Lord Stark wasn’t as brazen as to welcome her with the child in his arms, but she found him in the nursery when she went to put Robb there. Enraged, she immediately ordered him out, and then went to see her husband.

She wasn’t sure what exactly it was she expected would happen in that conversation. She didn’t think much, to be truthful. She was propelled into his solar by what she felt.

However, if she had thought about it, she would have probably expected an apology for the mistake. Certainly, she would have never dreamed of receiving the response he gave her.

“Yes, he is in my children’s nursery,” he told her evenly, giving her his cold, grey look, “for he is the blood of my blood, and in the nursery he will stay.”

She stared at him. “You intend to keep him here? In the castle?”

“Aye.”

“You would shame your wife like that,” she asked incredulously.

He was unmoved. “If I have shamed you, it was by breaking our marriage vows,” he said. “Caring for a child I gave life to brings no further shame to you.”

“It displays it for all the seven kingdoms to see!” She exclaimed, still incredulous the conversation was even happening. Everyone had said Eddard Stark was so honourable. It had seemed the one advantage of marrying him over poor, dead Brandon. And now this?

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, Jon will stay here,” Lord Stark insisted.

“Do you care nothing for me at all?” She asked, choking back tears.

“I certainly do not care more for your reputation than I care for the well-being of a child I am responsible for,” he replied, sending a shiver down her spine. “I heard you had him sent away from the nursery. Such will not happen again, my lady. He will be raised with my true-born children, educated and trained alongside them. I will not petition the king to give him my name – he is too close in age to Robb not to cause mischief with that – but in every other way, he will be like my troueborn children.”

Now tears really were streaming down Cat’s face, of anger and humiliation. “You would spit in my face in front of all the North!”

“If that is how you choose to see it, I cannot prevent you, my lady,” he said seriously. “You are within your rights to detest me. We already have a trueborn son. If you never wish to share my bed again, I will respect it. If you wish to return to Riverrun, I will respect it, too, as long as you leave my son with me. But if you choose to stay, you will not take out your anger on Jon. I cannot force you to love him, but I will demand you be courteous to him, if you wish to stay in Winterfell.”

She was so shocked her mouth fell open and her tears dried. He would be willing to effectively end their marriage, the marriage to a daughter of a Lord Paramount, over some bastard? Was the man insane?

Not that she had to think about his offers. As for the second, she knew her father too well, especially after what had happened with Lysa, after how she’d begged him not to marry her to Jon Arryn, after how unyielding he’d been. No, if she turned up at Riverrun because she would not tolerate her husband’s bastard, he would throw her out again as fast as his guards could manage, she was certain. She would try writing to him, sounding out his position, but she knew what answer she would receive. For all that Riverrun sounded like an impossibly perfect dream as she stood before her unfeeling husband in the cold North, she knew it was a foolish hope.

And as for the first suggestion...just one son was not enough. Robb was still little, and – Mother protect her from such horrors – he could die in the harsh northern climate. Gods knew her baby boy was all south. And if something happened to him, then Lord Stark would legitimize the bastard and then Catelyn would end up being forced out of Winterfell, she just knew she would. Perhaps the bastard would even kill his father to make it more expedient. No, she could not afford anything like that.

She closed her mouth, and forced her rage hidden behind a placating expression. “That will not be necessary, my lord,” she assured him. “I was merely...caught off guard. It is not customary in the south to award such a place of honour to bastards.”

“It is not very common in the North either,” he replied coolly, “but nevertheless, this is how it is going to be.”

She replied only with a bow, and left as soon as she could. She could cry in her own room.


	2. Barbrey I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A raven comes to Winterfell. Dark wings, dark words.

Barbrey passed through the silent godswood, drinking in its calm like a balm, as she always did. For all that she loved Winterfell, this had always been her favourite part of it. The Rills and Barrow Hall had godswoods too, naturally, ancient ones, but nothing could compare to the one in Winterfell, and especially not to its majestic weirwood tree. As she approached it with the reverence she couldn’t help feeling, she found Ned under it, just like she knew she would.

She sat down next to him, by the calm, mirror-like lake by the roots of the tree, and they shared the silence for a moment before she asked him: “How was it?”

“He died well,” he replied, putting away Ice, the ancestral sword of the Starks. “But...he was terrified. Something put such fear into him that you don’t see in men that often. I wonder what the wildlings did to him, that it kept him terrified for the weeks it must have taken him to reach here form the Wall.”

Barbrey frowned. “How many is it this year? Three?”

“Four,” he corrected. “Yes, they grow more numerous every year, as the Watch grows thinner and the wildlings grow bolder. It will not be long until I have to call the banners to go deal with the so-called King Beyond the Wall.”

“Well, Jon and Robb have to be bloodied somewhere,” she observed pragmatically. “Gods willing, we will be granted a year or two more, and then it will be just the right age. I daresay it will be safer, fighting the wildlings, than someone properly trained.”

“You are right, as you tend to be,” he told her with a small smile. “But still, winter is coming, and I do not like the idea of riding north in that.”

“Then perhaps you should do so before winter comes,” she pointed out, and he laughed. 

“It is impossible to argue with you,” he said, “you truly are always correct. When the autumn raven arrives from the citadel at the latest, unless unexpected good news come from the Wall, we will ride.”

She nodded in satisfaction, and they sat together in silence.

“Did you come to pray?” He asked then. “I’m sorry if I’m in the way.”

“Not at all,” she assured him, then sighed. “I actually came to speak to you. There’s been grim news from the south. Jon Arryn is dead.”

His eyes widened in shock as he looked at her, and she felt a twinge of both irritation and compassion. His fostering in the Vale was one of Rickard’s Stark worst ideas, to her mind. Of course, in his defence, the old man didn’t think Ned would be the one to inherit Winterfell, but still. With Benjen she could have perhaps understood it, but what was the point in having a spare heir when you make him unsuited to rule in your seat? Ned had overcome the handicap of spending so long away, but it had been hard for him at the beginning, especially with a southern wife, Rickard Stark’s other terrible idea.

So Barbrey looked at all of Ned’s connections form that time with dislike, but she did understand how fostering created bonds, and how much Jon Arryn had meant to him. She remembered Brandon's relationship with her own good-father well enough. So, in spite of her misgivings, she understood.

“Is the news certain?” He asked after a moment.

“It had the king’s seal.” She scoffed. “Also, Robert talks about the maester being useless and only giving Jon milk of the poppy because the death was so sudden, so if you ever suspect foul play, I would look to that grey rat first.”

Ned only sighed, and she didn’t press. She knew he disagreed with her opinion about maesters in general, though not necessarily about the rat who’d whispered in his father’s ear. She, in turn, had to concede that the current maester of Winterfell, Luwin, was not quite as bad, but then that was because he was of the North, though only from White Harbour. He did not try to keep his birth family a secret when she’d asked him, and his loyalties were mostly to the North, at least, even though his ideas of how those loyalties would be best served were too southron by far. And Barbrey knew that even that was an exception rather than the rule, and if there was one maester who’d be most likely to have plots upon plots on his mind, it would certainly b the one in King’s Landing, nest of vipers that it was.

Thinking of which… “There were other news in the letter,” she said. “The king is riding to Winterfell, with his family and half the court, it sounded like.”

His eyes brightened. “Robert is coming here?” Then he frowned. “And is already on his way? Damn him, giving us so little time to prepare...but at least with so many people, they will go slowly. There will be a lot to arrange.” He sighed. “Lady Stark will be in her element.”

“Yes, finally something she will be useful for,” Barbrey couldn’t help saying snidely. The southern bitch mostly tended to make everything more complicated with her interference, but Barbrey had to concede that if someone in the castle knew how to prepare a southern welcome, it was probably her.

It was a testament to the state of Ned’s marriage that not even he, with his ever-present honour, corrected her. It would have been different had they been in public, of course, but in private, he had no qualms letting her know what he thought of the wife his father had saddled him with. 

“We should write to Benjen,” she said. “He’ll want to come.”

At that, Ned smiled again. “Of course. And we will send outriders to them, though I suppose there is time for that, with the speed they must be travelling.” Then his smile fell. “And I need to talk to my wife.”

Sometimes, Barbrey wished she had simply stuck a knife in Catelyn Tully years ago. But then she knew Ned would never forgive her, as much as he disliked his wife. And it wasn’t as if she truly wished to marry him herself. She had thought about it, and thought about becoming his paramour in truth, like many in the household whispered she was already. But even aside from how difficult it would have been to convince Ned into breaking his vows – she was confident that with enough time, she could have managed – she didn’t truly desire him. He was no Brandon, and as for marriage, as much as she liked the idea of being Lady Stark, she knew he would only ever be her consolation prize, and that might very well ruin their friendship for good. No, it was better to stay as they were, in their parallel bitterness and fond memories of the past.

After all, it was a small miracle they even had what they had now.

When Ned had first returned North, having left the bones of her husband behind, Barbrey had been determined to hate him for all eternity, and did not make a secret of her feelings.

However, he’d taken the wind out of her sails when he apologized, and offered to take her south to fetch her husband’s bones, as well as all the other northern bones buried there, and bring them back.

“I was alone there, only with Howland Reed,” he’d said, “and I could not have brought them all back. But you are right, my lady, we should fetch them. They belong in the North, not in the mountains of Dorne.”

They had gone, just a year later, and it had been that long journey – two thirds of the year it took them to go there and back – that turned them into the friends they were now. Both of their losses were fresh, and in Brandon at least they were shared, and he told her many stories of his siblings when they were young as she told him of his brother when he fostered in Barrow Hall. It was also in the ruins of the Tower of Joy that he told her there was more to the story of Rhaegar and Lyanna than the realm believed, but that he’d promised his sister he would take her secrets to the grave.

Barbrey respected loyalty, especially loyalty to the dead, and she had let it be. She did not need to know all of his secrets to be his friend.

Now she simply pressed his shoulder and then rose, encouraging him to do likewise. “Your children are playing with their new direwolf pups,” she told him. That had been an unexpected blessing from the old gods, the four pups found in the forest, just the right number for all of Ned’s children. Jon had been so happy that he had one too, a little while albino, while Bran was thrilled to have someone to wrestle and scuffle with – when the pup grew a bit bigger, that was – and Sansa to have someone to groom besides herself. Barbrey supposed it was hard to help vanity when a child looked like Sansa did – for all she detested the Tully woman, she _was_ beautiful, and her daughter would be even more so – but she thought it would be good for the girl to have someone else to focus her care on, too.

As for Robb, he did his best to take the animal with dignity he thought befitted the heir of Winterfell, which was difficult to do when one was faced with a slobbering, enthusiastic puppy. He was full of the notion how one day, he would stroll around the castle with the wolf proudly by his side. Barbrey supposed it would make a nice enough picture – if only Robb did not look quite so southern…

She wished, sometimes, that she could reasonably suspect the Tully woman of birthing bastards instead of trueborn children, given how none of hers looked like Ned, but for all her bad nature, she held her honour close and would not sink to breaking her marriage vows – quite unlike, Barbrey had to admit, what she herself would have done in her place.

Besides, Barbrey loved the children dearly, and would not wish to see them named bastards, not even if it’d have elevated Jon as the heir of Winterfell. She might believe he’d be better suited than Robb, but she kept her belief to herself and did her best not to show it to the boys or to Ned. She knew it could only breed ill will, something she did not want to see among the children she considered her honorary niece and nephews.

No, it was a very good thing that every single child received a direwolf, confirming they were Starks and belonged to the North. The dead direwold bitch, killed by a stag, was decidedly less of a blessing.

Barbrey wished she could at least believe it foretold the Tully bitch’ death, but she could not imagine the woman being represented by a direwolf in any sign the gods sent. There’d have to have been a dead fish somewhere, and they were too plentiful to pay any mind to. No, it was much more likely to be Ned, or even her, whose death was being foretold, and it sent a shiver down her spine. The children were too young. They could not fend for themselves quite yet, not even Jon and Robb. It was too soon.

And then there was the fact that it had been killed by a stag. With Robert coming to Winterfell, that was an ill omen indeed, and she would have to make sure the guards were on high alert. Not that she thought the king would harm Ned intentionally – unless something changed greatly, he valued him more than anyone else – but accidents did happen, and if there was any man in the kingdoms prone to getting people accidentally dead by carelessness, Barbrey would wager on the king.

To Ned, she only said: “After you’re done speaking with the woman, perhaps you should go see them. I’m sure it will cheer you up.”

That brightened his grim countenance, just as she knew it would. “Only if you come with me,” he told her then, and gladly, she agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, no Arya and Rickon. The idea is that in a less loving marriage, there would be less frequent sex, and worse sex, and therefore less children. There’s a more particular reason for no Rickon, too, which will become apparent later. I’ll miss Arya, but the story demands it. 
> 
> As you can see, Cat chapters are swapped with Barbrey chapters, because Barbrey is in a role similar to Cat’s in the books. You will get Cat’s chapters instead or Arya’s.
> 
> Oh and as you can probably surmise, the first Bran chapter went pretty much as in canon, only with less pups, so there was no reason to do a rewrite. That will happen a lot during this first instalment, that I’ll skip repeating chapters that remain unchanged. I’ll always make a note of it here, in case you want to read them over or be reminded what happened in them or something. The Bran chapter, of course, is about the Night Watch deserter execution, and about finding the direwolf pups.
> 
> Oh and one last thing, this will be roughly the usual length of chapters in this fic, excluding prologues and epilogues. In this, too, I'm inspired by GRRM - or in particular by the beginning of AGOT, since the chapters got much, much longer later on.


	3. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal party arrives at Winterfell. Jon is not impressed...and then he is, just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned’s chapter (the one where he talks to Robert in the crypts and is asked to be the Hand) goes pretty much the same as it does in canon, except for the bit about Lysa and fostering Sweetrobin, so I saw no need to do a rewrite. Dany’s first chapter, of course, is completely identical. All of her chapters for the duration of this instalment will be, so she won’t be included (as you can see in the tags). In this one, she meets Drogo for the first time, just so you know that that’s still on schedule.
> 
> And no, in case you were wondering, the updates won't always be that fast-paced, but I'm excited :)

Entering the great hall at the end of the procession of those headed for the high table, Jon tried to decide what he thought about the royal family.

The king was a disappointment, he didn’t need to ponder that. His father talked of him sometimes, of what a peerless warrior he had been. Now, he looked like even conquering the steps it took to walk to the table was too much for him, and he was half-drunk already.

As for the queen, she was beautiful, no doubt, but she was also proud, proud enough you could see it with one look, and her eyes were as cold as the eyes of Lady Stark. Jon couldn’t help but wonder if all southern ladies were like that. It was strange, was it not? They were in the North, and yet there was nothing quite as cold there as the looks in the two southern ladies’ eyes.

Not for the first time, he very much wondered what his grandfather had been thinking when he made the decision to betroth his children to southern lords and ladies. It had been unusual, he knew that well, but he still didn’t know what was it that made him do it at all. Aunt Barbrey insisted it was his maester, but Jon found it strange. Maesters served with advice only. If Grandfather hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place, he could have hardly been convinced by an advisor. He didn’t seem, from Father’s stories, like that kind of man.

They we approaching the high table now, and Jon turned his mind back to the present and to the other members of the royal family. There was the Crown Prince, on Sansa’s arm, who seemed as arrogant as his mother, looking at everything in Winterfell with disdain. There was Princess Myrcella, who seemed like a sweet girl, and who looked at Robb, so much older than her, with undisguised admiration. And then plump little Prince Tommen, walking by Bran’s side. He was only a year younger than Bran, but he seemed like so much more of a baby.

No, the only member of the royal party Jon was truly impressed with was Jaime, the Lion of Lannister. That, he couldn’t help feeling, was what a king was supposed to look like. A proud, strong knight, who hadn’t gone to seed the way the king had, who had kept fighting fit over the years. He gave up his inheritance of Casterly Rock, Jon knew, to serve the king – even though it had been the previous king, whom he’d killed. They called him Kingslayer now, behind his back, but Jon wondered about that. King Aerys had been a monster, had burned Jon’s own grandfather and choked his uncle to death. Aunt Barbrey always said it was a good riddance to that man, and Jon couldn’t help but agree. What did it matter that Ser Jaime had sworn oaths to the king? All knights, he had heard, also swore oaths to protect the weak and defenceless. Surely, if the southron knighthood meant anything at all, those should be more important? If anything, Jon couldn’t understand why some of the knights around him hadn’t killed the king a bit sooner.

Next to Ser Jaime, there was his infamous younger brother, called the Imp. He was a dwarf, and ugly, and mostly he aroused a strange curiosity in Jon. What would lead the gods to give someone a body like this, he wondered? What kind of strange curse was it? But then, in the south it was the southern gods, no doubt, who decided such things, and Jon could never pretend to understand them.

They had finally reached the high table. Jon was seated at the very edge, next to Aunt Barbrey and Tyrion Lannister next to her. Jon did not doubt that was Lady Stark’s work: she had had more hand in preparing the feast than she normally had in anything at all at Winterfell, and even though she’d been ordered to seat Jon at the high table, she would take her revenge where she could, both on Jon and on Aunt Barbrey, whom she hated as much as Jon. Though as that was mutual, in both cases, Jon supposed he couldn’t exactly blame her.

And Jon was actually happy with his place. As much as he’d have liked to sit next to Uncle Benjen and listen to his stories, Tyrion Lannister was even more interesting, and Ser Jaime even more impressive – and that was saying something, because as First Ranger of the Night Watch, Uncle Benjen was one of the most impressive men Jon had ever met.

In fact, Robb was already neglecting Princess Myrcella by his side by avidly talking to Ser Jaime, while Lord Tyrion turned to Aunt Barbrey and said: “My lady, I’m afraid my knowledge of geography isn’t as strong when it comes to the North as it is regarding more southern parts of the kingdom. If I were to go look, where would I find your lands?”

Aunt Barbrey looked a little surprised to be addressed. “They’re some of the southermost lands of the North,” she said after a moment, “excepting, of course, Cape Kraken.”

He considered that. “The area we rode through, with all the small hills our Northern guides explained to be burial mounds of First Men?” He asked.

At that, she even smiled a little, and Jon knew how difficult it was to get his Aunt Barbrey to smile. “The very one,” she replied. “Did it catch your interest?”

He inclined his head. “It did, my lady. As you no doubt know, there are little remnants left of the First Men in the south. But here? Most northern houses seem to have blood of the First Men, the weirwood trees still stand, there are the burial mounds...to someone like me, it is irresistible.”

“Someone like you?” She asked with an arched eyebrow.

“History fascinates me, my lady,” Lord Tyrion replied, gesturing expansively with his goblet – it seemed the king wasn’t the only one half-drunk already. But then, this man was a dwarf, not a ruler. “I mean to ask Lord Stark for the indulgence of his library. I’m sure he has some volumes I could never find in the south.”

“I’m sure he does,” Lady Dustin agreed. Then she changed the topic – unsurprisingly, since books were hardly her favourite thing to discuss. “I was surprised to see you ride, Lord Tyrion,” she said. “If I saw correctly, your saddle was especially adjusted for that purpose.”

He gave her an amused look as he took a drink. “You don’t subscribe to the usual custom of politely pretending not to see I’m a dwarf to my face, then, I take it?” He asked.

“No,” she replied flatly, which only made him laugh.

“Good,” he said then. “I always prefer to face it openly myself – then I can never be thrown off balance by a whisper behind my back. And you’re right, of course, the saddle is adjusted.”

“May I ask who made the design?” Jon understood his aunt’s curiosity – she loved horses and everything to do with them, and she’d have never seen anything like it. Jon certainly had not.

“I did,” Lord Tyrion replied.

That clearly took her aback, and it took her a moment before she said: “You have my compliments, my lord.”

“Thank you. I’m sure you understand I was highly motivated.”

She only nodded, and there was a short silence before Lord Tyrion leaned forward a little to see Jon better and said: “And you, Jon Snow. If we are speaking freely, then let me admit I was surprised to see you at the high table. To my knowledge, Dorne was the only part of the realm where bastards were usually accepted on the same level as trueborn children, except for inheritance.”

Jon hadn’t known that about Dorne, and it caught his interest. “Are they?” He asked. “It’s not usual in the North, except for Bear Island, my father tells me.” 

“Lady Stark would have much preferred it if Ned hadn’t parted with custom quite so drastically,” Aunt Barbrey added bitingly.

Tyrion Lannister snorted. “Yes, I’m sure she would have.” He gave her a curious look. “Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot but be surprised by your presence here. No other bannermen of the Stark came to welcome the king, so...”

He trailed off, and Lady Dustin gave him a look. “Are you asking me for what particular purpose is Lord Stark keeping me?” She demanded in sharp amusement.

The Lannister snorted again. “Well, like I said, since we were speaking freely...”

“Not for that, I can assure you,” she replied in good humour. “Though that doesn’t stop his wife from suspecting.”

“No,” Lord Tyrion said in a curious tone, “I wouldn’t think it would.” He poured himself some more wine and drank, then said: “I suppose Lord Stark knew the king wouldn't care about a Snow sitting here – gods know he doesn’t object to creating bastards, at the very least - but my sister...well, she’s likely mortally offended, though she seems to have restrained herself from saying anything so far.”

“And you aren’t?” Jon couldn’t help but ask.

Lord Tyrion laughed. “I’m a dwarf,” he said then. “That’s much worse than a bastard in most people’s eyes.”

Jon frowned at that. “But you are a trueborn Lannister.”

“Yes, to my father’s despair. But even he, I think – and he despises whoring and bastardy more than anything, and believe that he despises most things – would prefer me to be a bastard to being a dwarf.”

Jon thought about that. They didn’t have any dwarves in Winterfell, and the closest he could come was the simple Hodor. He thought about whether Lady Stark would hate him less if he was her own child, but was simple like that. Somehow, he didn’t think so.

“But I am keeping the conversation grim,” Lord Tyrion pronounced after another drink, “and what’s worse, boring. Come, tell me stories of the North. We hear little of it down south, and most, I venture, are lies.”

“Because the truth is too mundane, my lord,” Aunt Barbrey replied with her cool amusement. “We are people like any other, and we live like any other.”

That was the first Jon had heard his honorary aunt claim any kinship with southerners at all.

“The children of the house keep direwolves as pets, I’ve heard a serving girl whisper,” Lord Tyrion replied drily. “That does not seem quite mundane to me.”

Aunt Barbrey laughed at that, and so did Jon.

“That is a recent development,” she said, then smirked and added: “A blessing from the gods.”

“Ah, here, see?” Lord Tyrion waved with his short hand. “Your gods give you blessings in the form of vicious mythical animals. Mine have given me piss all my entire life. Another marked difference!”

“Perhaps you should try the Northern ones, then, my lord,” Aunt Barbrey advised him drily.

“Ah, even if I did, what use would it be to me? There are no proper godswoods in the south, so where would I pray?” Then he snorted. “Not that I actually go to the sept when I don’t have to, mind you.”

“See, my lord? It would hardly make a difference at all.”

They all laughed, and then Lord Tyrion said, more seriously: “Even if I don’t mean to change my gods, I'd still like to see the godswood, I think.”

“I will take you, if you wish, as soon as the meal is done,” Jon heard himself offering. He was proud of the place, and liked the idea of showing this southerner its beauty and power.

“Will you accompany us, my lady?” Lord Tyrion asked Aunt Barbrey.

She hesitated, the regretfully shook her head. “I think I better stay and keep an eye on proceedings here,” she said, “but by all means, go. The king, I think, will not miss you.”

She give a sidelong look to the drunk king, and Lord Tyrion laughed. “No, I daresay not,” he agreed, and emptying his cup, stuck his knife into the meat that had just been brought to the table.

Jon mimicked him, and as he did, contemplated the man, and the strange accord he seemed to have found in Aunt Barbrey. He had a tongue as sharp as her, and as there was no one quite like that in Winterfell, Jon could see why she’d be happy for the opportunity to practice her wits on someone. If she liked him, it made Jon automatically inclined to like him as well. He thought about it, and he thought about how his father seemed to dislike the Lannisters. Looking at the Queen, he could understand that, but he wondered if it applied to Lord Tyrion too. In the end, he decided to try and find an opportunity to get his direwolf pup to sniff the lord. Ghost seemed to have good judgement so far, liking all the people Jon trusted and growling at Lady Stark whenever he saw her, and so if he liked Lord Tyrion, too, Jon would feel free to trust the man as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I imagine Barbrey having quite an influence on the education the Stark children got, including their opinions about recent history. Barbrey would have hated Aerys even more than she hated Maester Wylas.
> 
> Canon Jon doesn’t outright hate Catelyn, or wouldn’t say so anyway, but then he’s stopped by his siblings and father all loving her. Here, on the contrary, he's encouraged by Barbrey.


	4. Barbrey II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbrey hears more bad news, some of it very suspicious.

Barbrey found Ned in the godswood again a day after the party from the south arrived. Once again, she was not surprised. He went there when he needed to reflect upon something, and if there ever was a time when reflection was needed, it was now.

“Did the king make you the offer?” She asked when she settled next to him.

“He did, directly after his arrival, when we were in the crypts,” he replied. “I was ready to refuse him, but unfortunately, it wasn’t the only offer he made.”

Barbrey gave him a worried look. “What else did the king ask for?”

“Sansa’s hand for his eldest son,” he replied heavily.

“No,” Barbrey said quickly, instinctively, not needing any time to think about it.

“That was my reaction as well,” he said with a sad smile. “Prince Joffrey...I will not give my daughter to him. But...”

“But if you refuse both, he might take offense,” she finished for him.

“Aye. I want to think Robert would never harm me or mine, but...”

“But he is king now, and you haven’t truly known him for fifteen years,” she agreed.

“I will take the position of the Hand,” he said heavily. “I will beg off on the betrothal, saying that I want to see the capital first, that my family didn’t have good experience with it, so I want to explore it on my own before I feel safe bringing my daughter there or committing her to live there.”

“He might take offence at you comparing him to the Targaryens,” Barbrey pointed out.

“You are right, he might,” Ned agreed, frustrated. “I’ll have to make sure to focus on the Lannisters as those I don’t trust, then.”

She sighed a little at this repeated complaint of his. She supposed she could not blame him: his distrust of the family was much like her of maesters. Still, he had never personally been wronged by a Lannister, as far as she knew, so she couldn’t help but say: “I spoke to the Imp at the feast yesterday. I liked him.”

“I have nothing against him,” he conceded after a moment. “But his siblings are too proud by half, the Kingslayer has no honour, and their father...”

She only nodded. There was no need to explain the faults of Tywin Lannister to her, but then she considered all the great lords of that alliance – Hoster Tully, Rickard Stark, Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister – as power-hungry fools. Tywin Lannister, to her mind, was nothing exceptional in that. But she knew better than to say so out loud. Ned didn’t glorify Rickard, but it was still his father.

“By the way,” he added, and his tone changed to something that was hard to quantify, “my lady wife came to me early this morning with a most curious tale.”

“Indeed?” She wondered what the Tully woman could have come up with. It was hardly some slander, or Ned would have sounded angrier.

“Yes. Apparently, her sister sent her a coded message – and you will like this, it was sent via our maester – claiming that the Lannisters, or the queen, specifically, murdered Jon Arryn.”

She scoffed. “And to think I believed Luwin to be free of southern plots!”

“I will admit it does look suspicious,” Ned said reluctantly. “He claims that someone, while he was napping, put a box with a myrish seeing glass into his room, a box that had a false bottom, which contained the coded message. He didn’t read it, as it was addressed to Lady Stark, but he did show me the box. It truly does exist, including the false bottom, and the myrish glass did come with it. I cannot think where he would have gotten the means to buy something like that without my steward knowing, at least. It does seem more likely, as he claims, that someone from the king’s party brought it with him.”

“Or that it was your wife’s work,” Barbrey pointed out. Lady Stark certainly had enough money at her disposal – it was one of the few marks of her position Ned allowed her.

Ned frowned at that, but did not immediately deny the possibility, seeming to be thinking.

“What did she say about it?” Barbrey asked.

“Now that you mention it...she did claim it as the reason why I absolutely had to accept the position Robert offered me, to go and investigate. And...sorry as I am to say it, maester Luwin pushed very hard for the same end. You might be right, as for her, it is a unique chance to get out of the North, something she must have wished for for years, and he might see in it an opportunity to gain more control in Winterfell.” He frowned even deeper, then shrugged. “But at the same time,” he said, “well, you yourself mentioned the possibility of foul play when you brought me the news of Jon’s death. And Robert, when we talked about it, repeated once again how very sudden it had been. I fear that, in spite of the absurd drama of secret messages in false bottoms, there actually might be something about the news.”

“And you are always eager to believe any accusation against the Lannisters,” she added drily. She couldn’t imagine why the queen would suddenly decide to kill the Hand after living beside him contentedly for fourteen years, but then she knew little of the capital’s intrigue. Still, Lady Stark seemed, to her, like a much more likely culprit behind the message, conspiring with the grey rat. After all, if the idea of Jon Arryn not dying naturally was so obvious, and Ned’s bias against the Lannisters was so widely known, what was easier than her inventing the whole story?

“I swear I will not be hasty in my investigations,” Ned promised. “Nevertheless, Lady Stark will get her wish. She will ride south with me – I would never allow her to remain here without my supervision. But you...would you be willing to stay? Robb is only fourteen and will need guidance...”

“Of course I will stay,” she replied with a sigh, already missing him in her mind but knowing there was no other way out of this hole that didn’t risk the safety of the whole family. “I would never leave your sons alone in this.” Then she paused. “Who will you take, aside from your lady wife?”

“Someone to serve as a steward, I suppose,” he mused, “and about a hundred freeriders. Does that sound like a good group to you?”

“Perhaps a hundred and fifty?” Barbrey suggested. “We will be safe in Winterfell, but I don’t trust the southern nest of vipers.”

“It has not been so long that we talked about the wildlings growing bolder,” he pointed out. “I worry.”

“If something happens in the North, your son can call his bannermen for help,” she pointed out. “You will have no one but those you bring with you.”

He sighed, resigned. “Right as always,” he said. “Very well.”

She nodded, and thought about what else was needed. “As for Sansa,” she said slowly. “It might be that you will not be able to stall the king forever.”

He frowned. “I will not have her marry Joffrey. I will not.”

“Ned...the boy is twelve. It might be that, in a few years, he will grow up to be a young man no worse than any others. It might be that he will grow even worse, of course, and in that case I will support you in fighting with all you are against the betrothal, but most boys are fools at twelve. He might grow out of it, and if he does, it would not be prudent to make an enemy out of the king just because of your dislike for the Lannisters.”

“You’ve seen the kind of casual cruelty he displayed-” he began, outraged.

“I have,” she agreed – just that morning, they had both overheard him mocking Hodor and claiming he should have been killed as a child, “and if he stays that way, I will never suggest the betrothal goes through. But if he does not, or if for some other reason we need to proceed as far as Sansa going south, we need to be ready. We cannot be caught off guard again, like we were now.” Barbrey had hoped the south would never intervene in their lives again, but for all Ned’s attempts to isolate them, that had clearly been too much to ask.

“What are you thinking?” He asked, more curious than outraged now.

“We have to prepare Sansa for the eventuality,” she said. “I can try and teach her how to be careful, how to watch out for intrigues, as much as I can with my limited northern experience...but I can’t teach her other aspects of a southern court, things that I don’t know that would no doubt be as crucial to her life there as knowing how to know whom to trust. But you have friends in the south, from your time in the Vale. Could you ask them to send some of their daughters here, to be Sansa’s companions and train her in southern ways? If you tell them she might be queen one day, I’m sure they will rush to oblige.”

He frowned at that. “If I ask my friends, they won’t need that encouragement to help me,” he pointed out, “but still, you have a good idea here. Especially the Royces, perhaps – they are a First Men house, and would be more accepted here. The Belmores, too, now that I think of it. I will write to them, yes.” He smiled at her. “That was a good idea.”

She rather suspected he liked it more for the chance to write to his old friends than to help his daughter, but refrained from saying so. Why argue, when he would soon be leaving south? “Perhaps,” she said instead, thinking aloud, “ask the Manderlys to send their girls as well. They’re southern enough-”

“Don’t let them hear you say that,” he interrupted.

She waved that away. “And it would, hopefully, make the northern lords feel a little less slighted if there was at least one or two girls from the North among your only daughter’s companions.”

Ned thought about that. “Do you think we should ask some others, too? Alys Karstark is unmarried still and would be the right age...”

Barbrey shook her head. “We need Sansa to learn to act southern,” she said. “Such a determinedly northern girl as a Karstark would only ruin our goal. No, let us keep it to the Manderlys and hope the bannermen will understand.” She frowned a little. “Perhaps we should get some boy companions for Bran, offer fosterage? He is the right age...but with you going south, I’m not sure how well it would go over. Who would take charge of the children?”

“Precisely,” he agreed, with a sigh. “It was a good idea too, but not feasible at the moment. When I come back – and I hope to make it as soon as possible, once I’m done investigating – we will offer that. Until then, they will I hope understand that I have duties to my king.”

Barbrey much doubted that – the northmen had little understanding for any duties that took Lord Stark south of the Neck – but once again, refrained from speaking out loud. She understood his reasons, after all, and mostly agreed with them. What else was there to say?

Still, when he talked about coming back soon, a shiver had ran down her spine and she thought of the dead direwolf again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned’s stronger bond to Jon in this AU makes him more wary of Robert to my mind. I always imagined his ‘making peace’ with Robert after Lyanna’s death was partly for the sake of Jon’s safety, and I imagine the same thing would motivate him not to want to irritate Robert too much. In canon, he seems to try his best to pretend to himself the Jon problem doesn’t exist, but here, because of Barbrey’s influence instead of Cat’s, he never forgets about his nephew’s situation, and actually makes decisions that take it into account, instead of just, you know, sending his 14 yo nephew to the Wall (about which he just said like two chapters ago that it was becoming increasingly dangerous) because that was _totally_ what Lyanna meant when she said ‘promise me’.
> 
> Next up: a Cat POV, finally!


	5. Catelyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn gets ready to leave Winterfell, and reflects on her marriage.

The royal visit was about as much of a disaster as Catelyn had thought it would be.

First, even though her lord husband had pretended that he would let her organize the feast, he forced her to seat his bastard at the table. Then there was the queen and the crown prince, very obviously displeased – and who could blame them – and then the king getting so drunk. It made Catelyn think, would she have preferred to have a husband like that, drinking all the time, but not bringing his shame into her house at least? She did not know.

But then, perhaps the king would have brought his bastards into the palace as well, had the queen not stopped him. She had, after all, a very powerful father who no doubt had much influence in the capital. Catelyn herself was entirely cut off from her home here, and had no one to take her side in anything. It had to be different for the Lannister queen.

At any rate, after the feast came the warning from her sister and the mistrust her husband showed it, and then Robb and the Crown Prince almost came to blows in the training yard over exchanging some barbed words. The princess was obviously bored, Sansa was barely tolerating the Crown Prince, and her husband had as good as refused the betrothal that would have made her daughter a queen without as much as consulting her. Not that the last surprised her.

But there was a bright side to all of this, at least: she would finally, after fifteen years, leave this accursed place.

She had been outside of Winterfell, of course, in different places in the North, mostly the White Harbor, that reminded her of home the most; but she had never gone back to Riverrun. Not that Lord Stark forbid her: no, he as good as encouraged her.

She didn’t go because she couldn’t bear it.

Once she left, she couldn’t imagine what hardship it would have been forcing herself to go back, and so she stayed.

The capital, though? Well, that was different.

It wasn’t her home, with many sweet memories tied to it, it didn’t have the same emotional bond. But it wasn’t the North, and while her husband would still be with her, there would be no Lady Dustin to whisper into his ear, and there would be no Jon Snow.

Perhaps, she mused, being away from the bastard might even soften her husband’s heart towards her once again, and allow for some measure of sympathy to exist between them once more, as it hadn’t for the last seven years.

She had abided by his words, never had been anything but courteous towards his little bastard, and though their marriage bed was never exactly warm, she bore him a daughter and her womb had quickened with another child when the final breach between them had happened.

Jon Snow had started it, like everything that had ever gone wrong in her life. They were playing with Robb, playing at knights and lords, like the bastard had any place doing something like that, and he’d called out “I’m the Lord of Winterfell!”

Robb had frowned, the way she’d heard the story told, and said, very properly: “My mother said you can never be that. She said you’re a bastard, and so you can’t inherit Winterfell, that it can only come to me.”

The bastard had cried at that, and ran to his father, and instead of confirming that she was right, Lord Stark began to ask Robb and Sansa if she often talked to them about Jon and what she said. The children, of course, young and guileless as they were, told him.

Catelyn had never said anything wrong or untrue to them, had never invented lies about the bastard or encouraged her children to harm him. She had simply warned them about him, as was reasonable and proper. Whatever her husband thought, bastards were always a threat to trueborn children, after all, and especially a bastard as old as his eldest son. She had done nothing wrong.

Lord Stark, however, disagreed.

She had thought she had seen her husband furious before, but oh, she had not.

The end result, after he was done with his angry words, was that he had curtailed her time with her own children to the barest minimum, and had called Lady Dustin to Winterfell to take over most of the mother’s duties that rightly belonged to her.

She had seriously considered returning to Riverrun for good, then, and she might have done, except that she was pregnant with Bran and she knew he would be taken away from her if she went. Surely, she had thought, this one child would be left to her at least, this youngest one.

She had two years with him before his father began to enforce the same rules as for the other children, and by the time he was three, she did not see any more of him than of them.

She would be leaving the children behind in going to King’s Landing, but she barely knew them, and they her. It broke her heart still, but it would not be as much of a terrible loss as she would have thought, had you asked her those years ago. Not any more.

She had tried to argue for Sansa, at least, to go with them: her betrothal was still a possibility, her husband hadn’t rejected it outright, and if she was to be the Queen one day, she needed to learn southern manners and courtesies. Gods knew she knew little of them now.

However, it turned out her husband had seen to that, as well, and it was another mother’s privilege to be taken from her. Lord Stark had written to the Vale, asking the wives and sisters of the lords with whom he had fostered to send possible companions for his daughter. Replies had already arrived, and of course they would come: who would miss the chance to forge friendship with the future queen?

Catelyn wondered if it had been the Dustin woman’s idea. She couldn’t imagine her husband thinking of something like that on his own, he’d always been blind to such needs. But then the woman was as northern as they made them, and how would she know what to recommend?

She thought with suspicion of Jon Snow’s mother. Perhaps she was alive, and perhaps Lord Stark still kept in touch with her. Might it have been her who recommended this course of action to him? Was she someone from the Vale? It would make good sense, she supposed, and perhaps a daughter of hers, or even she herself, would be coming to Winterfell now to be her daughter’s companion.

The thought disgusted her. She thought of the Tully words: family, duty, honour. Well, she had tried to fight for her family, for duty an honour. What did it get her? She would lose most of her family – her children, at least – and didn’t know what of duty and honour there could be found in King’s Landing. She hoped, however, that there would be more of it for her than here.

Here, there was nothing.

She shook off her fruitless thoughts, and focused on her packing. At least she had gowns that were fit for the occasion, the one mark of her status left. At first, when she’d thought there was some hope for her marriage in spite of the bastard’s presence, she had many gowns made in the northern style to try and fit in somewhat at Winterfell, but it had never done any good, and in the last seven years, she had taken great joy in wearing southern gowns, of the sort she could remember her mother wearing in Riverrun when she was little, and styling her hair in the southern way, and simply, in everything, reminding both herself and those around her who she was. Regardless of whom she’d married, she was Catelyn Tully, the eldest child of the Lord of Riverrun, and no one could take that away from her.

It meant she did not struggle, now, with having gowns fir for King’s Landing. Perhaps they would not be as elaborate as the queen’s, but then she was not to be the queen, was she?

Then she paused. No, but she was to be the wife to the Hand of the King, was she not?

She had somehow never considered the journey in that light before. She’d thought of her escape from the North, and then of her sister’s warning, but never of what exactly her position would be in the south. It was, she assumed, because she was used to the position she was supposed to derive from her husband not amounting to much, but then again, he could not stop that in the capital. The Red Keep would not be filled with his loyal bannermen taking their cue from him in everything he did. It might be so in the Tower of the Hand, but outside of it, she would have the status afforded to the Hand’s wife.

She would be the second most important woman in the realm – third, if one counted Princess Myrcella, but the child was only a little girl.

Well. It seemed she would need some new gowns after all, but there was time enough for that once she was in the capital. Better fabrics and seamstresses, too, to be found there.

For now, she packed what she had, and went to see to her other remaining duties, few of them as there were.

First she sought out Vayon Poole, the steward who would be remaining behind to look after Winterfell in Lord Stark’s absence. “Lady Catelyn,” he said when he saw her, with the cold courtesy everyone at Winterfell except for a select few tended to pay her. They never called her my lady, or Lady Stark, and she knew it was no accident.

“Lord Vayon,” she returned, paying him back in equal measure, as she always did. “I hear there are young ladies from the Vale to be soon arriving in Winterfell.”

“And so there are, Lady Catelyn,” he confirmed, his voice strictly neutral.

“Well, proper accommodations must be made for them,” she said a little impatiently. “They will have certain expectations, and we should not disappoint them.”

Lord Vayon’s face became even colder. “I beg your pardon, Lady Catelyn, but it was Lord Stark himself who told me that the houses he asked for assistance were from the mountains, mostly, and would not find the northern way of life too daunting.”

Catelyn gritted her teeth. “At the very least,” she said, “they will worship the Seven, and they will need a space to do that in, if not a septon.”

She remembered how she first came here, and asked for a sept to be built for her and a septon called. It had been after his return North from the trip with that accursed Dustin woman, and Lord Stark had told her, cool and even, that there would never be a sept in Winterfell, that there had not been one built for Lorra Royce and there would not be one built for her, but that if she wished for septs and septons, his offer of returning to the Riverlands still stood.

“I could put aside a space for them, I suppose,” Poole said slowly, “there are enough empty rooms in this place. But there’ll be no septon here, I’m quite sure of that without even consulting with Lord Stark.”

She had expected that, but still thought it worth a try. “We will see how long the ladies will be willing to remain, then,” she said as she left to find more amenable company.

She wished she could go bid goodbye to her children, but she did not know what to say to them. Robb would be easiest, she knew, for she’d had the longest with him when he had been little and he was the most like her. He sometimes used to sneak to spend time with her secretly, and though he hadn’t done that the last few years, he still liked her more, she knew, than her other children.

Sansa seemed to despise her in a way she did not truly understand, and Bran, quite simply, not to know her. She did not have the strength to face that, not now. No, she would speak to them later, but it would not be her children whose company she went to look for to soothe herself.

There was only one person in the whole castle who she felt was ever truly in sympathy with her. Perhaps it was because, in spite of being from the North, he spent so long training in the far south, but maester Luwin always seemed to understand and enter into her concerns.

“My lady,” he said now, “what can I do for you?”

“Just...watch out here for me, will you not?” She asked him tiredly. “I am likely to have to return here one day, and I would like to have as much of a home here, at least, as I ever had.”

Gods knew it had never been much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story with Jon and Robb playing is canon, though of course what followed isn't. How we interpret it is a matter of opinion, of course, but my reaction has always been 'oh, so Cat talked to Robb often about how Jon absolutely never could inherit, did she? Interesting...' So I decided to have Ned have the same reaction, and start to dig.


	6. Bran I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal visit comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were sad for Cat in last chapter, you're going to be sad for her once more. But on the bright side, Cat - be it canon or this one - would certainly tell you she preferred it to what happens in the canon equivalent of this chapter.

His mother and father were leaving for the south.

It was a strange idea. For as long as he could remember, they’d been there, he with his serious face and she with her cool eyes. They left from time to time, of course, but always returned again soon. Now he knew they would not come back again for at least a year, and probably much longer.

Aunt Barbrey had spent most of the previous day with him and his siblings as their father went hunting with the king, and she’d told them they very likely would only come back for Robb’s sixteenth name day, to see him become a man, and then – or maybe at the same time? - for his wedding.

That was a very long time away to Bran’s mind.

At least Aunt Barbrey was staying. Bran couldn’t imagine what they’d do without her, because like she said, Robb wasn’t completely a grown-up yet, for all that he liked to pretend he was.

But she was staying, and Bran was maybe a little excited, even, because his mother would be gone.

His father told him he shouldn’t say such things, but Aunt Barbrey only laughed when he did, so he didn’t think Father was too serious. And it was true. His mother always seemed to ruin all the fun. Whenever she came somewhere, everyone stopped laughing and got very formal, and she often chastised Bran for climbing the walls or for running too much or for any other thing he liked to do. He had to spend an hour with her every other day and she never wanted to go to the godswood with him, let alone outside of Winterfell, so they were always just sitting in a room and Bran felt uncomfortable and bored. And whenever she held him, she always held him too tight. Bran didn’t like her half as much as he liked Father or Aunt Barbrey.

None of his siblings did, and least of all Jon.

His mother’s eyes always were the coldest when she was looking at Jon, and it scared Bran a little.

Now he was standing in a row with Robb and Sansa and Jon to bid their parents goodbye an offical, and Lady Stark had that look in her eyes again. She embraced all of her children – too tight, like always – and told them she would see them again as soon as she could, and then looked at Jon with disgust and left to board the wheelhouse.

Father’s embrace was just right, like it always was, and he whispered to Bran: “Be brave, like you were when we went to see the execution. I know you can. Help your brother and sister and Aunt Barbrey, and be good for them, will you?”

Bran nodded solemnly, trying to hold back tears. “I will, I promise,” he said, and his father pressed his shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” he said, and then he was mounting his horse and they were leaving.

Bran blinked for a moment, until he was certain he wouldn’t cry, and then turned to his brother, unsure about what happened now. 

“Well, Robb,” a voice came, as their Uncle Benjen appeared next to them, “what are your plans now that Winterfell is yours?”

“To keep everything as normal as possible,” Robb replied with a laugh. Then he grew serious. “When do you leave, Uncle?” He asked.

“Tomorrow or the day after, most like. Lord Tyrion decided to go to see the Wall,” he nodded to the man, and it seemed to Bran he didn’t like the idea much, “so it depends on when he is ready, too.”

“Oh, I’m entirely at your disposal,” Lord Tyrion assured him. “We can leave tomorrow.”

“You truly mean to travel all the way to the Wall?” Aunt Barbrey asked Lord Tyrion in some surprise. “That is an unusual choice.”

“My lady, I told you that for a man like me, the North was full of wonders. And surely the Wall is the most wondrous of them all?”

Lord Tyrion was right, Bran thought. “I’d like to see it,” he said aloud. “I’ve never been that far north.” In fact, now that he thoughts about it, he had never really been north of Winterfell at all, unless he counted the short rides on his pony to the edges of Wolfswood. Every place he’d visited – White Harbour and Castle Cerwyn and Barrowton – was to the south.

Robb smiled at him. “Maybe when Father returns, he can take you one day.”

Bran frowned. “That won’t be for ages and ages though!”

“Tell you what,” Jon interjected, “if Father stays away too long, I’ll go with you. I’d like to see it too, but we can’t leave Robb alone here so soon after Father left him in charge, can we? He needs our help!”

Bran reluctantly nodded. “Do you promise?” He asked.

“I promise,” Jon replied solemnly, and Bran was satisfied at least for the moment.

“Lord Robb,” Lord Poole interjected, approaching them, “there is one little matter I do need your input on...”

Robb looked a little nervous, but he nodded. “To work, then,” he said, and he, Jon and Aunt Barbrey left for Father’s solar.

Bran felt a little lost in the courtyard then, standing and petting his little, still unnamed, direwolf pup. He’d had a dream about the animal the previous night, and it was one of the strangest, most vivid dreams he’d ever had. He liked it enormously, and now thought about it to try and cheer himself up. But before he had time to remember any details, Maester Luwin approached him. “Come, Bran,” he said, “it’s time for your lessons.”

And Bran went.

He hoped they would be learning history today. He liked history, the stories of strong fighters and his namesake Bran the Builder and Kings of Winter and even the Targaryen kings and their knights. He liked learning geography well enough too, about which family lived where and what their words were and what colours and arms they had. What he detested was sums, and he hoped that Maester Luwin would not torture him with sums today.

It was the day Father left south, surely sums should not be added to that?

“We will study history today,” the Maester told him, and Bran exhaled in relief. “We will look at the southern kingdoms before the Targaryens came.”

Bran frowned. “Why?” He understood why he had to learn about the kings to whom the Starks had knelt, at least, and about what they did, but before that? What did it matter to him?

“It is important to know these things, Bran,” the Maester said seriously. “The people of the south put as much store in their history as we do in the northern one, and if you ever treat with southern lords, you should know where they came from and how old their families are, to know how much respect they deserve.”

Bran frowned. “I won’t, though. Southerners almost never come to Winterfell.”

The Maester arched his eyebrows at him. “Indeed? A large party has just left, and in two moons or so, we will have a group of ladies from the Vale to host. Will it not be embarrassing for you to know nothing about their houses? I am sure they will be ready, and will have studied everything they could about the Starks.”

Bran frowned a little again, but it made sense, and so, rather reluctantly, he said: “Tell me about the Vale, then. Father always said they were closest to the North of all the kingdoms, anyway.”

“Your father would think so,” Maester Luwin said, so quietly Bran wasn’t sure he was meant to hear. “Well then,” he added a bit more loudly, “the Vale. The first that you should know is that they have little enough First Men history-”

“But I thought the ladies that’d be coming were from First Men houses?” Bran interrupted.

“Well….yes.” Maester Luwin seemed unwilling to admit it. “House Royce and House Belmore both are, only House Waynwood is not, of those that will come.”

“See?” Bran said forcefully.

The Maester sighed. “They are those few of the First Men there who managed to form solid kingdoms, and later, when they lost the wars, to form alliances with the invading Andals, and to solidify those alliances by marriage,” he explained. “The history of these houses is old and noble indeed.”

“Tell me about the wars,” Bran demanded.

Master Luwin sighed again, but obligingly, began: “House Royce of Runestone were once called Bronze Kings, and at one point they ruled most of the Vale, except for the higher mountains and the very south, which was controlled by House Shett. They wished to unify the whole of the Vale under their power, and so king Yorwyck warred with the Shett king. At that time, the first Andals have landed in the north of the Vale – do you know what’s there?”

Bran had to think of his geography lessons for a moment, and try and recall the shape the map. “The Fingers?” He asked a little uncertainly.

“Precisely. And what have I told you about the Fingers?”

Again, Bran had to think. “That there’s...a lot of rocks?”

Maester Luwin laughed a little. “I told you it was rocky. That doesn’t mean there are many rocks, it means the ground itself is made of stone, with hardly any soil over it, so it means hardly any crops grow there, and not many trees or much grass either. What does that mean?”

That much, Bran knew, for there were such lands in the North too. “It is not very valuable, because it can’t produce a lot of food.”

“Exactly,” Maester Luwin said with a smile. “Some sheep can be grazed there, but not many, and it has some strategic value against an attack from the sea, but that is all. So the Bronze King did not worry about the Andals on the Fingers, thinking that he would first defeat the Shetts – True Kings, they called themselves – and then he would deal with the Andals.”

“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?” Bran said eagerly.

“Indeed, that was a mistake. King Yorwyck did not realize that there were many more Andals in Andalos than the few who had arrived so far, and that in the long term, they would be a much greater problem than the Shetts. The Shett king saw the potential in the Andals, however, and joined forces with one of them, Ser Gerold Grafton. They won, but the Shett king died in battle and Ser Grafton took the Shett seat for himself. Do you know what the seat of House Grafton is?”

Bran shook his head.

“It’s Gulltown. Now, that does ring a bell, does it not?”

Bran wanted to stick out his tongue at the maester. Of course it rang a bell, it was one of the five big cities of Westeros! “Yes,” he only said, impatiently.

The maester have him an indulgent smile. “Then you know why it made all the difference.”

“Because it was no longer just the barren Fingers!” Bran realized. “Now the Andals had a place that was so much more important! A big city!”

“Good, except that there was no big city there at that time. But the place was much better for crops, you are right in that, and also...what else is important about the location of Gulltown?”

Bran didn’t know, and so Maester Luwin pulled out a map and showed him the location. “It’s close to the Trident?” Bran ventured after a moment.

“Very good, Bran! Yes, it I where all the ships coming from the Trident must sail. That is why such a big city grew there later, but even before that, it was an important place to control.”

Bran felt very proud of himself for making sense of this. “Was that when the First Men lost the Vale, then?” He asked.

“Almost. It took a little longer, but by the time of King Yorwyck’s grandson, the Andals controlled three quarters of the area. The grandson, Robar II, created a big alliance of all the remaining First Men houses, the most important among them houses Hunter, Redfort and Belmore, and they crowned him the High King of the Vale. They had a few victories, but in the end they lost to the Andals and king Robar died. His brother then knelt to the Arryn king, and that was the end of First Men rule in the Vale.”

Bran gave a grim nod. It was a good lesson, he had to admit, and a good thing to remember – don’t underestimate a new enemy, eve if they seem weak at the start, and also don’t allow them to gain a big, important foothold.

“And both a Royce girl and a Belmore girl are coming here?” He asked the Maester.

“Two Royces, even,” the Maester replied, “and, yes, one Belmore.”

Immediately, Bran was looking forward to the guests much more. He hoped they knew some good stories of their famous ancestors. Bran would trade them for the stories he knew about the Kings of Winter. He liked all the Royces already. Sure, they lost in the end, but they had tried to fight, and they made that big alliance, and that seemed to Bran to be very important. He liked King Robar more than King Yorwyck, he decided. King Robar knew where his real enemies were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In most stories I see, as long as Jamie and Cersei are at Winterfell, Bran is pushed out of the window. But this thing is, that required such very specific circumstances, Bran being in just the wrong place at just the wrong time, that were entirely accidental, so any alteration in the universe whatsoever would have likely changed that encounter. So, in case you were wondering, this is why Bran isn't pushed in this verse. He just went climbing at a different time, because while Jaime and Cersei were having sex he was busy listening to Barbrey explain what was going to happen now.


	7. Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion travels to the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you all for your lovely response - I think this is the only fandom where one can get a hundred kudos in a week on a story with no ships. The lively comments, too, are awesome. All my love!
> 
> In this chapter we take a bit of a break from the Winterfell family drama, though not entirely.

It was a long journey to the Wall, even from Winterfell, and made longer by both the cold and the company of Benjen Stark. It was obvious enough the man had the same inexplicable dislike for him that Lord Stark did, one that did not even seem to be rooted in him being a dwarf. It seemed to be a bit lesser, at least, than that of the elder brother, and when Tyrion prodded at it a little it seemed to be more generally directed at southerners than at him in particular, and so he persisted in attempting to talk to the man instead of simply contending with reading. He found it worthwhile to gain this insight into the Stark family matters, now that its head was to be Hand of the King.

To begin with, he was most interested in Lady Dustin’s role, and so several days into their journey, he got Benjen Stark drunk on the good wine he’d brought on the journey and asked.

“Oh, they’re not lovers,” the man said. “Ned would never sully his honour like that.”

“His bastards indicates otherwise,” Tyrion pointed out.

Stark only snorted. “No,” he repeated, “there was never anything like that between them, for all that the Tully woman would never believe it. Barbrey loved Brandon, and Ned would never do as a substitute for that.”

Tyrion thought about what that must be like. A woman who loved the brother living in the household of the woman who had been engaged to marry him before his death. He also wondered at Benjen speaking completely freely of it, and if the family knew. “Is that why the children call her Aunt?” He asked, japing.

“Aye,” Stark replied, to his complete surprise. Then he laughed. “She told them, not long after she came to Winterfell, that she and their uncle had loved each other, and she should have been their aunt by rights and by choice, so they might as well call her that. She tells me that the Tully woman’s face at those words is one of her most precious memories.”

Tyrion laughed as well. He found Lady Dustin intriguing. Most women, he imagined, would prefer not to admit that they’d been overlooked for another, but she seemed to as good as boast of the fact, though she claimed it wasn’t her beloved’s choice. Still, generally it would have been found humiliating. But perhaps she took the same approach as he did to his dwarfism: wear it openly, and they can never hurt you with it.

“What about her Dustin bannermen?” He asked delicately. “Don’t they find her claiming the Stark connection so strongly...disturbing?”

Stark gave him a look full of that special northern brand of contempt. “You don’t understand the North, Lannister. We Starks are loved here, except by the Boltons perhaps, and my eldest brother, charming as he was, was especially so. And nowhere more so than in Barrowton, the Dustin seat, where he was fostered. Even Lady Dustin’s marriage came through that fosterage, in a way – they were all three of them friends together, her and Brandon and Willam. The people of barrowlands know this, and they know where her affections lay first, and that her marriage to Willam was one of friendship. No one would begrudge her her Stark affections.”

No, Tyrion supposed he truly did not understand the North. “Did Lord Dustin die a long time ago?”

“You haven’t heard?” Stark asked in surprise. “He was one of those who rode with Ned to the Tower of Joy.”

Ah. Tyrion did know that tale, and he knew the name of three Kingsguard who’d died there, but somehow, the name of the Northmen who’d killed them were never recorded in any of the accounts he’d read.

“It was for his friendship with Bran that Ned trusted him enough to take him there,” Stark added, melancholy now.

“Who were the others?” Tyrion asked curiously.

Stark thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t remember all the names,” he said. “Ned would tell you, for sure. But I can only recall there was a Cassel among them.”

“Ah, kin of the indomitable master-at-arms of Winterfell, I assume?” Tyrion asked. He’d heard about how the man had stood up to Joffrey and the Hound.

“The very one,” Stark agreed, then covered up a yawn.

Tyrion saw it as his clue to retire, but he drank with Stark again a few days later. He’d thought on the man’s snort at pointing out that Lord Stark had broken his marriage vows at least once. He’d wondered what that indicated, and after some thought, hit upon an answer that should have been obvious: Jon Snow was conceived before Eddard Stark married Catelyn Tully. But because that would make him his father’s oldest son, Lord Stark had messed with the dates a little, preferring the woman thought he’d been unfaithful on campaign to casting the inheritance of his eldest trueborn in any doubt.

So now, as he sat with Benjen Stark, he said: “As I told Jon Snow, I was astonished to see him at the high table at our welcoming feast. Do you know what led your brother to treating his bastard in such an unusual manner?”

Stark shrugged. “He loves the boy.”

“But still not enough to ask the king to legitimize him? You know he would,” Tyrion pointed out. It’d have been folly and a great offence to House Tully, but he’d have done it all the same.

“Perhaps if the boys weren’t so close in age,” Stark replied. “As it is, it would only create confusion and uncertainty in inheritance.”

Yes, Tyrion thought, satisfied. It is as I thought.

Stark was even more unpleasant to him than was usual the next morning, and Tyrion guessed it was because he felt he had said too much, so he left him alone for the rest of the journey, focusing on his books.

They reached the Wall five days later, and in spite of himself, Tyrion had to admit his breath was taken away.

Perhaps it was because he was so small, and so the thing seemed ever bigger, but somehow, he did not think so.

So-called Castle Black, on the other hand, was entirely underwhelming, and in fact was no proper castle at all. Tyrion couldn’t help but remark on that at dinner while he was seated at the high table. The Lord Coammnder did not seem to share the Stark distaste for him, and hopefully this question would not be offensive enough to kindle it.

“Ah, there is a story behind that,” Mormont said, and proceeded to regale him with the story of a Night’s King and his Other bride, and how the Starks have allied with the wildlings to defeat him.

It made Tyrion think. He did not believe in the magical portion of the tale, naturally, but he supposed it was possible the Night’s Watch, under an ambitious commander, could rise up. Not these days, when they barely had a thousand men to scrape together, but when it used to be ten thousand strong? In well defended castles, up in the far North, ten thousands were nothing to scoff at.

He also wondered whether there was any truth in the Starks joining with the wildlings, and if so, if such a thing could be done again today. From everything he’d heard in Winterfell and here both, the wildlings were pressing the Watch more and more, and the Watch lacked the men to deal with them properly. Was there, instead, a way to make an alliance?

He suggested the possibility to the Lord Commander, and was given a surprised look. Ser Allister Thorne, a swine if Tyrion had ever met one, scoffed at it, but Mormont treated it seriously as he said: “With some, mayhaps you could, but some are truly nothing but savages. And the King Beyond the Wall, well, he used to be a brother of the Watch once. How could you trust any alliance made with an oathbreaker?”

Tyrion though of his own brother, the kingslayer who broke the eoaths of kingsguard, and did not reply. Instead, he thought of what would lead a man of the Night’s Watch to become a King beyond the Wall, and what would lead the wildlings to accept him.

In spite of comments like the one about oathbreaking, Mormont wasn’t bad company, and Tyirion was thankful for it when Stark went ranging a few days after they arrived. There was, however, one even more precious gem hidden on the Wall, even though it required Tyrion to climb all the way up to his tower to speak to him: Maester Aemon, brother to Aegon the Unlikely, and a living historical relic.

Tyrion had never been this impatient to meet anyone in his entire life.

His welcome was not the warmest, though. The maester was blind, but when his serving man told him who was coming to see him, his voice turned cold as he said: “My lord of Lannister.”

If even blind men despised him, then Tyrion did not think there was any hope for him left.

“Maester Aemon,” he returned. “I confess that your presence here was one of the main draws of the Wall for me. I would be grateful if you could make some time for me.”

“One of the advantages of joining the Watch,” the maester replied in his feeble voice, “is not having to attend on every wish of the lords of the seven kingdoms, Lannister or otherwise.”

Tyrion almost groaned in frustration, but he would not be deterred. He would never have another chance to talk to this man in his life. “Yes,” he said, “but then I am not asking for my every whim to be obeyed. I only wished to ask if you were willing to talk about your family a little.”

Tyrion had not thought that so much hatred could be contained in old, blind eyes. “The brothers of the Watch are the only family I have,” he replied, “or don’t you know that, my lord?”

Tyrion was honestly surprised. “Do you dislike your family so much, then?”

The maester grit his teeth, and turned to his servant. “Please,” he said, “see Lord Tyrion out.”

Tyrion went before he could be escorted, but unwilling to give up, asked Mormont about it during the evening feast. 

“Ah,” the lord commander grimaced, “I am afraid that you might not be a welcome sight to the maester. My apologies.”

Tyrion frowned at that, and for the moment left aside any japes about the maester not having a sight at all, welcome or otherwise. “What have I ever done to him to make him do displeased?”

“The gall of you, Lannister,” Ser Allister spat. “Your father had his prince and princess murdered, and then you walk in here and demand we all pay you courtesies, as if we have not gone to the Wall to escape exactly that!”

“While Ser Allister could choose his words more carefully,” Mormont said with a look at his master-at-arms, “he is, in essential, correct. Surely you must see that your family’s actions during the war do not endear you to any Targaryen?”

Tyrion had not even thought about that, to be honest. “The maester had been here for decades when the rebellion happened,” he pointed out. “He had never even seen the children.”

“They were still his family,” the lord commander said with a look of mild disapproval, “and he did know Rhaegar in person. He came here once or twice to consult him.”

Tyrion had not known that, and it made him even more curious to speak to the maester. “I am surprised he does not dislike Benjen Stark even more strongly then,” he commented idly. “After all, the man was older during the Rebellion than I was.”

“But Lord Stark was not the one who had the children killed,” Mormont said, and he seemed to be nearing anger as well now, so Tyrion decided to drop the topic.

Still, he had to wonder. Was maester Aemon truly so bothered? And if so, what could Tyrion say to make him speak to him? He could not simply apologize – it was not as if it was him who gave the order, and what excuses could he make for being Tywin’s son? No, he would have to come up with something else.

He waited a few days to give himself time to think and to Maester Aemon time to cool his anger, and then climbed up to the tower again.

“I spoke to the Lord Commander about your dislike of me,” he said without any preamble once he was reluctantly let inside, “and I have only one thing to say. It is this: If we were all to be judged by the worst deeds of our families, then surely, as the great-uncle of a mad king, you would be the most deserving of scorn in this entire collection of murderers and rapists.”

The maester’s sightless eyes bore into him for a time, and then he inclined his head slightly and said: “Very well, Lord Tyrion. Prove me wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion not talking to Aemon while at the Wall is one of the biggest WTFs of the books to me. It’s not like it was a secret Aemon went there, so Tyrion would definitely know. He might not know he was still alive, but he’d have wished to see the maester in any case, I think, because he’d have wished to see the books and the library, so...how the hell could he miss that? Instead he spends all his time with Old Bear, who is no one relevant to Tyrion at all...So I headcanon that he actually did speak to him, but that it happened off page because it wasn’t relevant for further plot. Which, um, won’t be the case here, shall we say.
> 
> (This headcanon also makes sense because of the ‘giant among us’ comment Maester Aemon makes, because we don’t ever see anything on page that would warrant such praise from him, unless mocking Allister Thorne is enough for that. So either GRRM is just randomly having someone stan his fave, or something happened there we have not seen.)


	8. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon in Winterfell, without his father and with new responsibilities.

It was just as strange as he’d thought it would be, being in Winterfell without Father.

It was even stranger hearing Robb give the orders Father used to give.

Aunt Barbrey was by his side at all times, of course, just as she used to be by Father’s, and Robb talked all of his decisions over with her, Lord Poole and Jon. But it didn’t make it any less strange.

Lord and Lady Stark and the entire royal party had been gone for a moon’s turn now. If they had been riding at the usual speed, they’d have been somewhere in the Neck by now, Jon knew, but who knew how slow or fast that monster of a wheelhouse was? They were probably somewhere in the barrowlands at most.

Meanwhile, Jon was going to the Lord’s solar now, because a raven arrived and Maester Luwin wanted to speak to him, Robb and Aunt Barbrey. Something that would have never happened before, because his voice would not need to be consulted on these matters.

Now it was. Or, well, it was still not needed – Robb was the only one who truly needed to be consulted on anything – but Robb had asked that Jon be included in everything. Jon was thankful, but it was a strange feeling.

Then again, his fifteenth nameday was less than two moons away, so he supposed he should be getting used to being treated as an adult more. Next year, he would officially be his own master.

He reached the solar, finding Robb and Aunt Barbrey already there, giving Maester Luwin curious looks.

“It is nothing serious,” he assured them when he saw Jon was there. “Merely, a bird has come from White Harbour to let us know the ladies from the Vale that come to be Lady Sansa’s companions have reached them safely, and that they would set out on the morrow with ladies Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly, as was requested by Lord Stark, as well as a sizeable armed escort. They should be here in twenty days or so, gods be good.”

Robb nodded in acknowledgement. “What preparations are needed?” He asked, turning to Aunt Barbrey.

“Certainly less than when the king came,” she replied drily. “There will need to be a feast to welcome them, of course, and rooms prepared for them, but aside from that...”

“Perhaps outriders?” Jon suggested.

Robb nodded. “That is a good idea. They will be travelling on the White Knife, though, so I’m not sure...”

“We can set people to watch the river when the time approaches,” Aunt Barbrey decided. “It’s half a day’s ride from Winterfell, with a fast rider, we can send people to meet them on the King’s Road before it branches towards here. It will have to be enough.”

They all agreed to the idea, and then Robb looked around. “Anything else?”

“We should allow Sansa to help with the preparations,” Aunt Barbrey suggested. “She is old enough to have some ideas, and the ladies come to be her guests in the first place, after all. She needs to start learning some responsibilities.”

Robb look uncertain. “She’s only an eleven year old girl,” he said.

Aunt Barbrey smirked. “Your Aunt Lyanna was fourteen when she shined as a mystery knight at a tourney. Do not underestimate young girls, Robb.” Then she grew serious. “Besides,” she said, “if the king presses that betrothal and your father can find no way out, she will have to go into that nest of vipers that is the capital. Southern courtesies are not the only things she needs to learn to survive there. She needs to be able to take care of herself.”

Troubled, Robb agreed.

Jon had noticed their aunt spending more time with Sansa lately, even more than usual that was, and always in what seemed a sort of secretive conversation. At least, they’d always ceased talking when he’d approached. When he’d asked Sansa about it, she’d told him it concerned feminine matters while blushing, and he’d thought she meant moon blood or such, but now he wondered. Were there some things Aunt Barbrey was teaching her when it came to this kind of survival? It wasn’t what would commonly be called a feminine thing, and yet it was, in a way – if a man was taught survival, he was taught how to fight. Sansa could hardly be taught that, and would not be suited to it regardless, so there must be some other ways Aunt Barbrey taught her.

Jon, on the other hand, was spending much of his time with Bran. They sometimes talked of their planned trip to the Wall, and Jon joined Ser Rodrick in helping train Bran with his sword. His own training, as well as Robb’s, had increased – now that Robb was acting Lord of Winterfell and Jon, in many ways, his second in command, it was thought more important they learned to fight properly, and Ser Rodrick was even allowing them to touch live steel sometimes.

Jon was also spending much of his time with Ghost. Though it was obvious from the way the wolf behaved that he was still a pup indeed, he was growing fast, and did not in truth look like that much of one any more. For a dog, he would be an average sized adult at this point.

Jon liked chasing him in the godswood, and training him to obey his commands, which Ghost seemed to do almost naturally, taking to it easier than any dog he’d ever known. It surprised Jon – shouldn’t wolves be harder to train?

And it wasn’t only Ghost either – all of his siblings’ wolves seemed to be the same, Sansa’s Lady perhaps most of all. But Grey Wind, too, had begun to follow Robb in the way he’d imagined he would when the pup could scarcely walk, and as for Bran’s wolf, who still hadn’t been named...Bran often joined Jon in the godswoood for training them, and he seemed to have even more control of his wolf than Jon did, at times.

At other times, he had much less. Perhaps his wolf was simply temperamental? Jon couldn't help thinking naming him would help, but Bran changed his mind about names every day.

At any rate, it was clear that all of his siblings were completely in love with their wolves, just as much as Jon was. He wondered if they went as far as he did – a few times now, he’d even dreamed about Ghost, or rather dreamed that he _was_ him, which was maybe even stranger. But Jon enjoyed those dreams, how detailed they were and how well he always remembered them afterwards, and he felt like he understood Ghost better when he could imagine what being him felt like so well.

He ruffled his wolf’s fur where his head lay on Jon’s lap, and when it seemed there was nothing more to be discussed about the Vale ladies, he went to find Bran for some fun with their wolves once more.

Bran was enthusiastic, as he always was, and soon they were throwing sticks with all their force and watching the wolves sprint for them.

At one point, Ghost seemed to smell something hat distracted him, and ran off to investigate with Bran’s wolf in tow. It reminded Jon of last night’s dream so strongly that it almost startled him, and he remembered what he wanted to ask.

“Bran,” he said, “have you ever dreamed about your wolf?”

“Yes,” Bran said, sounding surprised that Jon should ask. “I’ve had a lot of dreams like that! They’re fun. Why?”

“No reason,” Jon said idly, feeling a little embarrassed for his own. Still, it was reassuring to know he wasn’t the only one this obsessed with his new pet, though maybe his seven year old brother was not the best measuring stick.

Ghost returned, and Jon threw him another stick after lightly chastising him for running away. But to his surprise, his wolf wasn’t the only one to tear after it. No, there was a sound from behind him and he could see a flash of light grey fur follow Ghost deeper into the godswood.

Jon turned, and smiled at his sister. “Are you here to train Lady?” He asked.

“Well, she is better trained than your or Bran’s wolves,” she replied tartly, which was certainly true, “but I decided that maybe it would be good for her if she could not only listen and behave inside, but also hunt a little, if...if I ever need it.”

Jon frowned, hearing something in her voice. “What is it?”

Sansa shook her head. “Nothing, really,” she said, with a glance at Bran.

Bran, however, was fully occupied with wrestling with his wolf right at that moment, and so Jon took Sansa’s arm and led her a little aside.

“Has something happened?” He asked her in a low voice.

She hesitated, then said: “Not happened, really, but...Aunt Barbrey talked to me of the dangers I could meet in King’s Landing, and she said it was a good thing I would have Lady, and I just thought, well, if she was to protect me she needed to know how, did she not?”

Jon put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, trying to be reassuring. “You will likely not have to go there at all,” he said, “Father won’t allow it if he thinks it’s even the slightest bit dangerous.”

“Aunt Barbrey is right, though, it’s better to be prepared.” She frowned. “Don’t be like Robb.”

Jon sighed. “I’m sorry, Sansa, you are right...and you know Robb doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” she agreed. “It doesn’t mean it isn’t stupid.”

Jon could offer no argument to that. Aunt Barbrey said Robb treated Sansa like a porcelain doll because of southern nonsense Lady Catelyn put in his head, but Jon wasn’t so sure it was true. After all, it had been years since Robb really spent any time with his mother, and just as many years with Aunt Barbrey, who was the best possible proof that women weren’t dolls one could ask for.

Father, on the other hand, said it was natural for an elder brother to wish to protect his sister. He’d said it with pain in his voice, and Jon knew he was thinking of his own sister and so he didn’t argue, but he doubted it too – or it made him feel guilty. Was he a bad older brother, because he never felt as protective of Sansa as Robb did? Was it because Robb knew he would be Lord of Winterfell one day and they would all be his responsibility? That they were his responsibility already, in many ways?

That seemed to make more sense to Jon, but he didn’t know, and when he’d once tried to ask Robb, his brother didn’t seem to know what he meant and so Jon had let it be.

It meant, however, that he could offer no explanation to Sansa now. At least, however, he could stop with the platitudes, and so he simply said: “Do you want any help in training Lady? Sticks might not be all that useful if you want her to protect you from people, you know.”

Sansa gave him a grateful smiled, then sighed. “I know,” she said. “But how can I train her for that? I can’t do it with real people, I don’t want her to hurt anyone in Winterfell...I would need to try it with people who mean me harm, but I don’t want to see anyone like that!”

No, that obviously would not do, so Jon wracked his brain for some other solution. “She could play-fight with the other wolves?” He suggested in the end, aware that it wasn’t much. “At least she’d be fighting someone, even if it wasn’t people...”

Sansa thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “At least it’s a start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following canon chapters (11 and 12 from A Game of Thrones, Dany’s and Ned’s second chapters) would remain unchanged from canon, except some very minor adjustments to Ned’s, like the very last paragraph. Dany’s is her wedding to Drogo, and Ned’s is Robert finding out about the wedding, and riding in barrowlands with Ned. Just in case you needed a refresher on what’s happening on those fronts.


	9. Tyrion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion leaves the wall...with some food for thought.

Tyrion settled into a rhythm of sorts at the Wall.

He would wake up late, and after sending one of his men in the kitchen for a bit to eat – the Watch’ breakfast was long over – the would drag himself up the Wall to look at the world beyond. He walked it for a little bit, then went back down and ate when the men did. After that, he would go to Maester Aemon, to pick his brains about whatever historical events he could think to ask about, and if the maester was busy, to the library to read some of the old writing to be found there. His particular favourites were the bits and pieces preserved from Bloodraven’s observations when he served at the Wall.

It had been a little uncomfortable at first, his time with Maester Aemon, until he realized one thing that really should have been obvious: the man was starved for intelligent company. For all that he seemed loyal to the Watch, the simple truth was that it was no space for scholars, and if Tyrion could offer him that and stay away from any mentions of his family, they would get on perfectly well. And they did, the maester perhaps even developing some fondness for him with time, or at least more fondness than most people had.

Tyrion would then eat dinner at the High Table with the Lord Commander every day, and spend the evening with the man, drinking and eating well and listening to stories from his life in the Watch.

For almost a moon’s turn, he continued like that, without Maester Aemon or Mormont running out of interesting things to say, until Benjen Stark returned from his ranging.

Tyrion always meant to wait until the man came back, to have some first hand accounts of the world behind the Wall that were fresh, but he got much more than he’d accounted for. Benjen Stark returned from his ranging with disturbing news. 

For one, apparently, the wildlings have withdrawn from their usual haunts, but only to be all gathered in one place, which even Tyrion could see wasn't good news. 

"When you return to the capital, my lord," Mormont told him, "I beg that you'd tell the king of our plight, that he might send help. If Mance goes to march with all that force… Well, I don't know that we're strong enough to resist, Wall or no Wall." 

Tyrion saw his point – the wildlings might be a ragtag group of untrained savages, but the Watch wasn’t that much better. He thought of his idea of an alliance again, but did not bring it up with Mormont. Instead, he tried his luck with Maester Aemon, who gave him a searching look and then said: “There has to be good will on both sides for such an alliance, my lord, and I fear presently there isn’t good will on either.”

That, Tyrion supposed, was true enough.

At first he thought that was all the news to be had, and certainly it would be disturbing enough for the Watch and the North, though no real danger for the rest of the kingdoms...but gradually, Tyrion realized that was not it at all.

There were other things, things that Mormont did not share with him but that he'd heard other watchmen whispering about as he walked the top of the Wall. The forests were strangely quiet now, they said, as if the animals were all gone, or almost all. There was no prey to hunt, when with the wildlings gone, there should have been more than ever. And the cold, they said, had a strange quality to it at times…

Tyrion dismissed most of it as superstitious talk, but he was still disquieted. These were no green men that he heard talking. They were seasoned rangers, many of them, some as old as forty, and a Night Watch ranger who reached forty was no fool. They’d been beyond the Wall dozens of times, and were unlikely to get scared at every animal scurrying in the snow. And Stark himself, for all his faults, did not seem superstitious or easily frightened.

He couldn’t help but think of the talk he had heard in Winterfell, of more and more deserters from the Wall, and how terrified they tended to be lately. He shook himself. The atmosphere was getting to him. It was time to stop thinking about frivolities. He had a meeting with Measter Aemon to keep.

To shake the queerness off him, he opened it by saying in a light tone: “There’s a lot of superstition in the Watch, for being full of supposedly hardened men.”

Aemon fixed his unfathomable blind stare a him. “Superstition, my lord?”

Tyrion laughed. “They talk of white walkers when they think no one can hear them, and I expect them to warn me of grumkins next.”

The maester looked at him in silence for a moment, then said: “I would send you to our First Ranger to speak with him, but I suspect you would only offend his pride by being as disbelieving as you were of the other men. So instead, I’ll give you a source you seem more likely to trust. You were most fascinated by my great uncle’s writings, were you not?”

It took Tyrion a moment to realize who he meant, and then was a little surprised a Targaryen would be so eager to acknowledge a bastard connection, but nodded.

“Well, I gave you only scraps. There is a more substantial collection, from his tenure as Lord Commander. I am willing to lend it to you for a few days, but I must warn you, you might not find what you read in there so pleasing.”

Tyrion did not.

It seemed Bloodraven had succumbed to the Targaryen insanity in the end, in spite of being a bastard, for the writings were full of magic and skinchangers and weirwood trees and ravens and third eyes, and Tyrion could not but shut it in disgust and disappointment.

He did not even understand why Maester Aemon gave it to him to read. There was nothing of white walkers in there, nothing to give justice to the claims of the men around him. Bloodraven’s madness took a different turn, and Tyrion wondered if what was appealed to here was his compassion. If a great man like this could believe such folly, after all, could not the common rangers of the Watch be excused?

Perhaps he should start there, ask the maester why he gave him the book in plain speech. The old man seemed to appreciate plain speech, at least, and Tyrion was too tense with the atmosphere at the Wall for riddles.

Maester Aemon seemed surprised by the question. “Have you not found it interesting?” he asked.

“Very,” Tyrion replied drily. “Even better than the tales my wet nurse told me.”

The maester shook his head, as if disappointed. “Then not even a man whose brilliance you trust is enough to convince you of something that you have not seen with your own eyes.”

“I believe in plenty of things like that,” Tyrion opposed. “I have no reason not to trust that zorses run free somewhere in the world, for all that I have never seen one. But monsters and magic? Spare me, maester. Surely you do not believe that yourself?”

The maester shrugged. “I knew Brynden,” he said, and again it took Tyrion a moment to realize he meant Bloodraven, “so it is different for me. It is you we are speaking of, my lord.”

“No, then,” Tyrion admitted, “Bloodraven’s word is not enough for me. Is that why you gave the book to me, to test my trust?”

“To give you context,” the maester corrected. “I thought that, perhaps, if you knew that the Others are not the only thing to be strange here in the North, you might begin to see them as less impossible. It seems I was wrong.”

He sounded almost disappointed, and Tyrion left as soon as possible. He had enough disappointment from his father, he did not need to go all the way tot he Wall for more. He drank that evening with Jeor Mormont and his commanders, and even had a good conversation with Ser Jeremy. But the dsagreement with the maester would not leave him, pricked at him the whole of the following day, and he did go to speak to Benjen Stark another day later.

The man was even more reluctant to talk than he’d been on the journey to the Wall, and it took a good amount of wine to get him to admit that he saw a wight – wight! - on his ranging.

“A dead man walking,” he’d said, “a brother of the Watch, too, one I used to know. We lost him on a ranging not too long ago, and now he came back, with a hole in his belly, but walking all the same...” He scoffed, and took another drink of wine. “We cut him down and ran, for what else was there to do?”

Living in this inhospitable place apparently got to everyone sooner or later.

Tyrion felt a sudden urgent need to depart, afraid that if he stayed any longer, he would succumb to the madness too.

Still, he would not go until he talked to Maester Aemon one last time, at least, and so he did so the next afternoon, as soon as he shook off most of his hangover.

“Your First Ranger,” he said by way of a welcome, “has a more vivid imagination that I would have suspected form travelling with him all the way here.”

Maester Aemon gave him one of his sightless looks. “If you insist on not hearing what anyone tells you, Lord Tyrion,” he said, “then why do you even speak to people still?”

The question took Tyrion off guard, as there appeared no good answer to give. But in the end, it was the same as in their conversation before: some things were believable, and some were simply not. “Would you have me believe everything, then?” He argued. “People lie all the time, and this claim was particularly ridiculous.”

“You said yourself that Benjen is not a fanciful man,” the maester pointed out, “and whatever you think of him otherwise, surely you must know that he is trustworthy.”

Tyrion had to admit that much. “Still,” he said, “if a trustworthy man was telling me that the sky was green, I would not believe them.”

“If you were both looking upon the same sky, then surely not,” the maester agreed, “but if he told you that the sky had been green in the morning, when you slept? Would you dismiss his words, only to find out later that there had been a wildfire explosion on the horizon, and the sky had taken on the colour?”

Tyrion frowned. “But that means there would have been a reasonable explanation.”

“And yet you reached for sky being green as the most absurd thing you could suggest,” Maester Aemon said softly, almost chidingly. “Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for what Benjen Stark told you, as well.”

Tyrion scoffed. “For a wight? The only reasonable explanation is that he saw a man he only thought dead.”

“And yet you know that does not fit well with what he told you.”

Tyrion did know that, sadly. “Then the only reasonable explanation is that he did not truly see what he thought he saw.”

“And yet he was the one who had been there, and he is the one who is an experienced ranger, while you have never stepped beyond the Wall in your life, and you consider yourself an expert on what is reasonable.”

Tyrion shook his head. “I have seen the Wall. I have stood atop it. It is not some magical barrier that separates us from a world of monsters. The world beyond it is just as the world on this side, with the same rules. If something is impossible here, it is impossible there as well.”

“Things are not always what they seem,” the maester replied. “You of all should know that – how many underestimate you? There is more to the Wall, too, just like there is more to you. And a flower that blooms in the south will not bloom here – should the northerners doubt its existence because of that? May it not be that a fouler blossom grows here, too, that would never flourish in the south?”

Tyrion slept badly that night, and left in all hurry the next day. He’d been right: he needed to get out, before he went entirely mad in this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Benjen surviving, it’s connected to Bran. Bran wasn’t pushed, so everyone left Winterfell on schedule, meaning Benjen set out on his ranging a bit earlier, meaning he wasn’t in the same situation that led to him getting killed in canon. It’s a different situation than with Bran because while with Bran it’s almost certain any change to the Winterfell situation at all would mean he wouldn’t be pushed, with Benjen we know zero details about his disappearance/death, so it’s anyone’s guess if the change in situation would help or not. But in the end, when writing an AU, it’s usually better to go for changes when uncertain because it avoids repeating canon too much, so that’s what I did here. I understand it might look like it’s too much wishful thinking – too many things changed for the better – so let me just assure you that there will be some changes for the worse, too, apart from Cat’s situation, it will just take us a while to get to them.


	10. Barbrey III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladies from the Vale arrive at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first third of this is done! Not just numerically (I know y’all can count…), but the story arc of this fic does sort of have three parts, and with this chapter we’re entering the second one.

The outriders have ridden out hours ago, and the Starks and other important personages of Winterfell were all standing in the courtyard, waiting for the ladies from the Vale to arrive.

Part of Barbrey hated the whole thing. Even though it had been her own idea, part of her wanted to claim that she was all Sansa would ever need when it came to learning things her father couldn’t teach her. But as much as she was proud, she liked to think she didn’t let her pride overcome her reason, and she knew she was not qualified to prepare anyone for a southron court. She had never wanted to be qualified for that in her life, until now.

There was a shout from the walls announcing that the group was finally there, and Barbrey pulled her mind back to the present.

The outriders rode in, then a few Manderly guards, and then, finally, what had to be the guests of honour.

Barbrey watched them ride in, and as she observed the two Manderlys at the head of the group, she couldn’t help but be grateful that they would be there, too.

They were seventeen and fourteen, she knew, and both pretty girls, but at the same time not empty-headed like some southern simpletons. They both sat confidently in their saddle, and were not as bundled up as some of the ladies who followed.

Barbrey knew there were to be four of them, from the Vale: Ysilla and Myranda Royce – not sisters, apparently, but some kind of distant cousins from different branches of the family, like Flints in the North – Alyssa Waynwood and Ryella Belmore. Myranda, at nineteen, was the oldest of them, followed by the sixteen years old Ysilla, fifteen years old Ryella and thirteen years old Alyssa. Looking at them now, Barbrey did her best to guess which was which. Two of them were so bundled up it was ridiculous, while the other two, while dressed warmly, were more akin to what one would expect a northerner to wear in the summer. 

Of the two bundled ones, she could see little enough, but of the others, she was almost certain one was Myranda Royce. She looked older than sixteen, for certain, and nineteen was as good an age for her as any. She was plump and looked cheerful as she looked around the vastness of Winterfell.

The other visible girl was clearly younger, but Barbrey could venture no guess as to her identity. She seemed as plump as the other, but her face seemed much less openly cheerful.

Well, she would know who they were soon enough.

Robb stood there to welcome them – the Manderlys first, as was their due as his bannermen, and then they introduced the other ladies.

Barbrey had been right: the older plump one was Myranda Royce. The younger was Ryella Belmore, and upon closer look she wasn’t so much plump as simply stout. Her face was serious, but it was comely enough, though probably would never be called pretty – it was too hard and sharp, even at such a young age, for that. Of the others, Ysilla seemed tall and slim, as much as Barbrey could judge under her clothes, and Alyssa looked simply completely nondescript, wrapped up as she was. Robb kissed all of their hands and then turned to introduce the rest of his household.

Sansa’s courtesies were perfect as they always were, and Bran was such a sweet boy everyone liked him. It was when it came to Jon, of course, that the trouble started. “A bastard?” Ysilla Royce asked, her tone dripping with disdain.

“My brother,” Robb replied sharply, “who is not to be treated with discourtesy by anyone in Winterfell.”

Barbrey felt immensely proud of him in that moment. The girl was over a year older than him, and seemed good-looking, but Robb had not forgotten his role, and the weight his word carried now.

Ysilla merely pursed her lips, and did not offer her hand to be kissed, earning a scoff from the other Royce. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Sil,” the older girl said. “I for one am charmed to meet you, Jon Snow. Mya Stone from my father’s castle is my good friend, and I hope we can be good friends as well.” She smiled at him as she said it, and Jon, Barbrey noticed, took special courteous care with the kiss to her hand.

Their guests were shown into their rooms, and then it was time to prepare for the feast. Barbrey had her hands full, with checking everything was as ready as it could be, and was glad she managed to get herself at least somewhat presentable by the time she needed to step into the Great Hall and entertain their highborn guests.

It was hard not to think of the feast they had had to welcome the king and queen, now that the occasion was so similar. But the group at the High Table was smaller and less contentious, for all that Robb, did not seem to be thrilled with Ysilla sitting just a space down from him. Given that Barbrey was between them, she thought she had rather more to complain of. Lady Alyssa and Wylla Manderly seemed to be getting on better: the Waynwood girl, when emerged from her bundled clothing, turned out to be even prettier than Ysilla Royce, though young and very wide-eyed as she looked at everything around her. Wylla seemed happy enough to play a guide, for all that she’d only been to Winterfell once before, as far as Barbrey knew.

She listened to the girls’ conversation as she tried to catch a glimpse of the other side of the table. Jon was on the edge, of course, next to Wynafryd Manderly, and they seemed to be deep in conversation. Myranda was cheerfully chatting to Bran as Ryella sat and observed in silence. Still, everything seemed to be going reasonably well, so with grim determination, she turned to Ysilla to try and make a conversation.

She asked after the journey, and after receiving a curt reply, Ysilla Royce raised her eyebrows and asked: “And what, pray tell, is your role here, Lady Dustin?”

It was not a very successful beginning, but Barbrey was used to this, and had dealt with that kind of poison with people certainly much more dangerous than sixteen year old chits just come from the Vale. She smiled her sharpest smile, and said: “Why, Lady Ysilla, I am the acting lady of the house, in Lady Catelyn’s absence. Did you have some questions for me? Are you, perhaps, worried you will not find your room again?”

The girl grit her teeth and turned bodily away from Barbrey, who scoffed and exchanged a look with Robb. The boy had heard and was angry, she could see, and so she put a hand on his arm and gave him a meaningful look. It wouldn’t do to have a scene during their welcoming feast, and Ysilla would learn soon enough, just like the Tully woman had learned, that it was not her who made the rules in Winterfell.

Given her place at the table, Barbrey was unable to meet the rest of the ladies properly that night and spent the rest of it speaking to Robb, but she took care to take her chance in the following days.

They each seemed very likeable in their own way: Myranda Royce was like a female version of Brandon, Barbrey sometimes thought, including her incessant flirting with every man she met. Barbrey told herself to keep careful watch over that: while Lady Myranda stayed with them, they were responsible for her, and it would not do if she was to depart North with a bastard in her belly. She seemed smart, so hopefully if she chose to lie with someone she would take precautions, but still, perhaps Barbrey better speak to her.

Ryella Belmore seemed Lady Myranda’s precise opposite. She was so quiet and serious Barbrey was sure Ned would love her once he met her, and Myranda seemed to see it as her long-standing quest to make the younger girl laugh, or at least smile. So far, she was failing. Ryella just watched everything with her careful eyes, and did not speak unless she had to.

Alyssa Waynwood, out of all of them, seemed like just the sort of perfect little lady that was needed to teach Sansa everything she required to know. Or not teach exactly, perhaps; Alyssa did not appear the type to teach anyone. But she did model the perfect example of how Barbrey always imagined a pleasant version of a southron lady would be, not the bitter, hateful one they got in Catelyn Tully. A harsh word never seemed to pass Alyssa’s lips, and she had a smile and a kindness for everyone. Barbrey was a little suspicious of it – she did not think it was entirely human – but so far, she had not seen the girl slip.

Perhaps she cut off flies’ wings in private?

If Ned had been there, he would tell her to stop seeing the world in so grim a light, but then Ned was not there, and that was the problem.

As for the Manderly girls, they confirmed Barbrey’s previous impressions of them: Wynafryd was smart, and she brought much to their conversation during dinners, and Wylla was lively and, alongside Myranda, made sure there was never a moment of awkward silence that lasted too long.

Ysilla Royce, though...well, Ysilla Royce, Barbrey was sure, would get along very well with the Tully woman. She did not improve when one knew her longer, rather the contrary. It wasn’t just her disdain for Jon. Many things seemed not to be to her liking, and she’d scoffed openly when showed the space that had been determined to serve as the ladies’ improvised sept for the duration of their stay. 

By the time she’d been in Winterfell a week, she’d managed to alienate absolutely everyone, and now she usually found herself sitting on the edge of a table during meals, not speaking to anyone and no one speaking to her.

But now Bran’s name day feast was ahead of them, and Barbrey was facing a decision. The easiest thing to do, of course, would be to keep the seating from the welcome feast, and to allow Ysilla to preserve her place of honour. But she was loath to do that.

She thought of what that Tully woman would do, and decided that doing the exact opposite was near always a good course of action, and so she determined to seat Ysilla at the edge of the table, in a position that would mirror Jon’s.

It would, she was quite certain, make her furious.

It meant, though, that Barbrey would be able to seat Alyssa Waynwood next to her, company she would enjoy much more, she was certain, and perhaps it would give her a chance to find a crack in that perfectly polished exterior. Not that she wanted to torment the girl, but she could not help feeling there was something hidden under the politeness that she did not see.

Wylla, who had grown very friendly with Bran in the way that an elder sister who was more lively that Sansa would, was seated next to him, meaning that Wynafryd took on her previous position one space down from Barbrey – and thus, sadly, next to Ysilla.

Someone had to sit there, but still, Barbrey determined that she would have to include her in their conversation with Alyssa. It was Bran’s name day, and everyone should be as happy as possible.

Everyone except for Ysilla, that was, a view which was only strengthened after they took their places at the high table. As soon as Robb toasted Bran and the conversation could start, Ysilla turned to Wynafryd and said: “It must be a relief not to be placed next to the bastard this time.”

Wynafryd gave her her sweetest smile in reply, and said: “I assure you, I have not been seated next to any unpleasant company at Winterfell until now.”

It was in that moment that Barbrey decided she adored Wynafryd.

“I have heard it said,” she commented aloud, “that doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results from it, was the very definition of foolishness.”

Wynafryd looked at her, her eyes sparkling, and Barbrey felt as if she saw her own sister when she had been young, and still happy.

Yes, she thought, asking the Manderly girls had been an excellent idea. She did not end up giving much attention to Alyssa Waynwood that evening after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Barbrey petty enough to want to throw down with a 16 yo girl? Yes, yes she absolutely is.


	11. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa making new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a Sansa chapter!

It was Jon’s fifteenth name day today, and Sansa was worried. She was worried Ysilla would say something dreadful to him and ruin his whole day.

The ladies from the Vale and White Harbour had been in Winterfell for a moon’s turn now, and most of them were perfectly charming. Sansa liked Alyssa best. The girl was closest to Sansa not only in age, but also in nature, not as wild as some of the others, but not quiet and grim like Ryella.

Or horrible like Ysilla.

No, Alyssa was amazing. Sansa had never had anyone like her before. She was good friends Jayne Poole, the steward’s daughter, of course, and had been for years, and she liked her very well, but there was always their difference of station between them. Sansa had noticed many times that Jeyne sometimes repeated whatever Sansa said, or agreed with her in nearly everything, and it was a little frustrating. Aunt Barbrey told Sansa she shouldn’t blame her friend, that it was what her parents told her was the right way to behave, but it frustrated Sansa and she hadn’t found a way to explain to Jayne that she should stop doing it.

Alyssa never did anything like that. Not that she would argue with Sansa, exactly, but when she disagreed she simply said so, though always very politely and kindly. Just the day before, Sansa was talking about how southron tourneys were frivolous and useless, and Alyssa had insisted they were not in such a mild but unyielding manner, it seemed to encompass Alyssa’s character perfectly.

“Perhaps it would be useless for House Stark,” she had said, “because you rule undisputed in the North, and hardly ever venture south, but for the other houses… My mother always said it is a chance, when there is no war, so show others that their fighters are strong and that there should be no war, at least not with them.”

Sansa had to think about that for a moment. “But only your knights compete in the tourneys,” she said then. “And most fighters are not knights. If a House had very many foot soldiers, it would not matter if they had bad knights, would it?”

Alyssa had laughed at that, a little tinkling laugh. “Not if there was a very big difference – if one house had ten thousand and another only a thousand – but houses so much more powerful, or less powerful, than yours are not usually the ones you need to impress. But for those who are of similar strength...well, from what I had heard, knights and lords usually fight against knights and lords. So if a lord see that a house he wants to attack has strong knights, he is afraid, because what if it is him, or his son, who is killed in the war?”

It was a very good argument, Sansa thought, and she would have to talk about it with Aunt Barbrey to ask what she thought about it. Alyssa could be very clever when she wanted to be, though the lady Sansa admired the most in this respect, and in all others too, was Wynafryd Manderly. 

She was much older than Sansa, of course, but she was so pretty and dignified and smart. She always had some clever answer, especially to Ysilla’s horrible remarks. When Sansa was older, she wanted to be like Wynafryd.

Well, she wanted to be like Aunt Barbrey, but that was for when she was much older. Wynafryd, Sansa thought, was just what a noble born maiden of the North should be like, while Aunt Barbrey was just what a woman fully grown should be like. Except that Sansa wanted to have children, but then Aunt Barbrey would have probably had children too, had Uncle Brandon lived. Sansa always got very sad when she thought about that, and prayed to the gods that when she loved a man, they would not let him die so soon.

But then Aunt Barbrey had always taken care of Sansa and her brothers, so maybe it was almost like if she had children of her own?

She was certainly more of a mother, Sansa thought spitefully, than Lady Stark ever was. In fact, Lady Stark was very much like Ysilla, including the poisonous things she said to Jon. It was exactly the same: after Robb’s warning the first day, Ysilla never said anything that would be discourteous enough that Robb would be within his rights to throw her out of Winterfell, but she hinted and insinuated, just like Lady Stark used to, and it turned Sansa’s stomach. Why were there people like that in the world?

And why did one of them have to be her mother?

When she was little, she worried that because she looked so much like Lady Stark, she would grow up to be like her, too, and had wanted to dye her hair brown. It was Aunt Barbrey who had explained that it didn’t matter that all three of Lady Catelyn’s children took after their mother in looks. “In nature,” she had said, “you are all Starks.”

Sansa hoped it was true. Sometimes she thought the only one of them who was really very Stark was Jon, not just in looks but in nature, too, quiet and grim most of the time, like their father. But Aunt Barbrey insisted that Bran was just like Uncle Benjen when he had been little, and Robb, she said, was like a mix between Sansa’s father and his elder brother, Brandon.

“And me?” Sansa had asked, hopeful. “Am I like my Aunt Lyanna?”

She knew she could ask Aunt Barbrey about Aunt Lyanna. It was only father who got all sad whenever she did.

Aunt Barbrey had smiled, and said: “You are certainly pretty like her, my sweet. But no, Lyanna was much wilder than you. You are, however, quite a lot like your grandmother Lyarra.”

That had cheered and reassured Sansa. And it was nice to have someone to talk to about her family, when her father didn’t like to do it. She knew that to be a proper lady of the North, she had to understand it, and for that she had to understand the people – not just those alive now, but those who were dead already, too, because as Aunt Barbrey explained, what people did today was often influenced by what some of their dead relatives did twenty or thirty years ago. Aunt Barbrey wanted her to learn. Sansa liked that. Her father, she felt, often treated her like a little girl and tried to keep things from her, but she was not a little girl any more. She was almost twelve, and when she was twelve maybe she would flower, and then it might even be time to start looking for a husband. Aunt Barbrey knew that and wanted her to be prepared, and Sansa was grateful for it.

Well, except that the husband now maybe meant Prince Joffrey, and Sansa wasn’t grateful for that at all.

She went to godswood every day and prayed that the betrothal would not come to pass. She didn’t want to marry him. He was arrogant, full of disdain and cutting remarks for everyone – except her, she had to concede that much, but what did that matter when he offended her brothers and her home? And besides, she didn’t want to leave the North. It was her home, it was what she understood, and she wanted to stay there.

But she wasn’t a little girl, and so she knew she might not have a choice. She knew that saying no to a king could be dangerous. Aunt Barbrey had whispered a secret to her, when Sansa had cried about the betrothal. She had made her promise not to tell anyone, and then she told her that while everyone said her Aunt Lyanna had been kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar, her aunt thought she had gone willingly. “Robert had wanted to marry her,” Aunt Barbrey had said, “and she didn’t want him. But your grandfather wouldn’t listen, and so she ran away with Prince Rhaegar. Robert went to war for that, and he killed the prince.”

“I thought that the war started because they killed my grandfather and father?” Sansa said.

“That’s why your father went to war, my sweet,” her aunt had said. “But King Robert? He went for Lyanna, because he wanted her and would not let anyone else have her. Now he wants you for his son. What do you think he would do if your father told him no? We can’t risk anything like that, my sweet.”

Sansa had cried some more, then, but she understood. The wolves had to protect each other. They were a pack. That’s what Aunt Barbrey had always taught her. If she had to marry Prince Joffrey to save her father and brothers, she would. But she prayed every day that she wouldn’t need to.

She shook herself from her thoughts, forcing her worries about Jon’s celebration aside too and preparing for the day instead. If Ysilla said something, Sansa decided, she would be like Wynafryd, she would reply with something cutting to put her in her place. And she would ask Robb to find some way to send her away from Jon if it was necessary. Jon should spend the day with people he liked: his siblings, and Ryella, whom he seemed really friendly with lately.

Sansa had been surprised at first – Ryella was very quiet and grim, and didn’t seem to make friends easily – but she supposed they were similar in nature. And lately, she’d began finding her own way to Ryella, too. The girl might be quiet, but much like Jon, once she said something, it was usually smart and to the point.

The exact opposite, she couldn’t help thinking, of Lady Myranda. But then it was impossible to dislike Lady Myranda. She was friendly and cheerful all the time, not even Jon could stop himself smiling when she was nearby.

She and Wylla really made Winterfell feel alive, each in her own different way. Wylla was also great company for both Robb and Bran, playing with Bran and exploring the castle with him for long hours, and then watching Robb in the training yard, shouting out encouragements.

Sansa liked watching them together, and wondered if her brother might like Wylla not just like a friend, like Bran did, but like something else. They were a bit young to marry, of course, but it wasn’t impossible. Sansa wondered if Wylla would be a good lady of Winterfell. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine it. Aunt Barbrey, she knew, had always been more of a Lady of Winterfell than Lady Stark, and Wylla wasn’t much like Aunt Barbrey, Sansa didn’t think. Not in anything but how she liked riding, at least, and how outspoken she could be. 

Sansa would have to ask Aunt Barbrey what she thought. She knew she could always ask her aunt anything.

She bent down to give Lady a few pets, and then she headed out of the room, her direwolf at her heels, to go and find Jon. These days, there were a few places he could be: by Robb’s side seeing to some duties, in the training yard with Bran, or in the godswood, again with Bran – or with Ryella.

This time, he was in the training yard, and to her surprise she saw Ryella standing next to him wearing breeches. The lady never dressed in pretty clothes or frippery, but still, breeches?

“Good morning, Jon,” Sansa greeted him cheerfully. “Happy name day.”

Jon turned and smiled at her, and – was it only her imagination, or was eh blushing a little? “Thank you, Sansa,” he said, and she kissed him on the cheek and embraced him. When she let go, she turned her curious eyes towards Ryella and asked: “What is happening?”

Jon’s flush deepened. “Ryella wanted to give me a sparring match for my name day,” he muttered.

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Is that...allowed?” She asked uncertainly.

Ryella shrugged. “My father had me learn some little fighting with my brothers. He said it was good for a woman to be able to defend herself, because there were men without honour everywhere in the world. I’m not as good as Jon by far, but I thought it could be interesting.”

Well, it _was_ Jon’s name day.

“All right,” Sansa said, still a little uncertain but determined not to ruin Jon’s day. “Can I watch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, two namedays in a row...but the boys really do celebrate them like a month from each other. 
> 
> As for the “Lyanna went willingly” bit, my idea is that Barbrey knew Lyanna and Ned gave her a few hints over the years, so she had pieced this much together.
> 
> There’ll probably be no update tomorrow, as I’m away from the PC and updating on mobile/laptop is a PAIN, but the day after that should be fine, though perhaps a bit later than usual.


	12. Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned arrives in King's Landing.

It was a relief to reach King‘s Landing.

The journey had been long and exhaustingly slow, and there was little on the way to distract Ned and much to worry him. His lady wife sitting in the wheelhouse with the queen was enough to cause him headaches on its own, wondering what they talked of, and if he could trust Lady Stark not to speak ill of the North.

Well, no, the answer to that was easy. He could not, and even less could he trust her not to complain about Jon, which made him nervous.

Not quite as nervous, however, as Robert’s rants against Targaryens and his unending desire to see every one of them dead.

He had done right to take this accursed job, if only because he could see for himself how unreasonable Robert still was, and that Jon would never be safe from him.

The king was unreasonable in other ways, too, as became obvious when Ned reached the Red Keep only to be informed that the Small Council was gathered and waiting for him, and all that, as he discovered later, only to be told that Robert meant to have a tourney at the cost of a hundred thousand dragons, which was apparently the usual cost of these things around the capital. It rather explained how the crown could be six million gold in debt.

Ned was exhausted when he left the council, and he knew he would still have to deal with establishing his new household and making sure his lady wife was settled in a way that represented the least danger to him. He had been unwilling to leave her in Winterfell with his children, but now, after watching her ride with the queen every day, he rather wondered if she was not even more dangerous to him now, in the capital.

He tried to remind himself that it had been her who gave him the warning of the Lannisters killing Jon Arryn, but...why the cordiality with the Lannister queen, then?

He sighed, and wished desperately that Barbrey was there to give him advice. But Robb needed her more. He would have to muddle through on his own.

He also missed the older of Robert’s brothers, which was something he never expected to feel. Stannis was not a man easy to love, but seeing the frivolity of the capital, Ned was certain he would be a firm ally in attempting to reduce it. Apparently, the Master of Ships had left for Dragonstone. Perhaps that would give him a chance to see Theon Greyjoy as well. Ned still felt slightly bad for refusing the fosterage and foisting the boy on Stannis instead – or Stannis on the boy. He did not think it made for a happy childhood, but at the time of Greyjoy Rebellion, he had still thought his marriage was not entirely beyond saving, and assumed that bringing another unwanted and unannounced boy home to Lady Stark would not help him endear himself to her. Now he thought he might have just as well accepted him and spared him growing up with Stannis. It would do him good if he could see that the boy was doing well enough. Yes, he decided, if Stannis did not return to the capital in the next month or so, he would go to summon him back in person.

He ate a cold, silent dinner with Lady Stark, desperately wishing for his family, and slept fitfully. The next morning, just as they were finishing an equally silent breakfast, a servant entered to let him know Lord Baelish was there to see him.

Irritated on principle, worried about what sort of problem the man was bringing him, he bid him to enter, only to be given merely perfunctory greeting before the man turned to his wife and said, warmly: “Cat! How long has it been?”

And to Ned’s further astonishment, his wife actually smiled as she rose, and said: “Petyr! Entirely too long to count.”

Of course. Ned had...not exactly forgotten, but hadn’t thought about his wife’s knowledge of the Master of Coin. He knew that the man had fought a duel for her hand with Brandon, but that had been so many years ago, it hadn’t seemed truly relevant. And yet, looking at them now, he began to wonder if he had been perhaps wrong.

They embraced, and smiled at each other for a moment before Baelish turned back to Ned and said: “I did not merely come to greet an old friend, Lord Stark. I also came, out of my friendship with Cat, to offer my assistance.”

Ned frowned. “Your assistance with what?” He wondered.

“Why, settling into King’s Landing, of course,” Baelish replied. “There are many pitfalls to this place, my lord. The walls have ears here, and you must not trust anyone.”

“Not even you?” Ned asked him drily.

The man grinned. “Especially not me.”

“Then why would I listen to anything you have to say?” Ned asked, disgusted with this kind of double talk.

“Well, if I mean to fool you, surely I will have to mix some truth into my lies,” Baelish replied calmly. “It must be better than stumbling entirely in the dark.”

“Petyr,” Lady Stark said, in a soft, chiding tone. 

“Oh, forgive me, Cat,” he said immediately, giving her a smile. Then he turned back to Ned. “I only jest, my lord. I will do my best to help if I can. Is there something particular I could be useful in?”

Ned looked at him, wondering whether to say anything, when his wife blurted: “Lysa wrote to me that the Lannisters-”

Lord Baelish held up up his hand, very sharply, and shook his head. “Like I said, Cat, the walls have ears here. And in any case, Lysa shared her...opinion with me before she left. I’m not certain I agree with her, but I cannot entirely dismiss it either.” He paused. “Is that why you accepted the position?” He then asked Ned.

“Partly,” he conceded, certainly not willing to divulge his other reasons.

“And why you left most of your family behind, I imagine,” Baelish muttered. “Well, then, I will do my best to assist you in that endeavour, risky as it is going to be. But please, my lord, I beg you, speak to no one of this. There is truly no one trustworthy in this city, and even some of your people might become corrupted soon.”

And then he left, leaving Ned once again with a twisting feeling that he shouldn’t be here, that this wasn’t his place...and also, that of his own people being corrupted, his wife might easily be the first.

He thought longingly of the children once again. How was Robb doing? They journey had taken several moons, so by now the running of Winterfell would not be such a new thing to him. He should send a raven, he realized, informing Robb of their safe arrival, and so he headed to see the maester, composing the letter in his head. He couldn’t write much with a raven, but he could write something, at least, some reassurances and words of encouragement. Robb wasn’t that much younger than Ned had been when he’d inherited Winterfell, and at least he’d spent his entire life there. And he didn’t have an unfriendly wife to contend with, so Robb was likely doing better than Ned had been all those years ago. Still, Ned remembered the stress, the nerves that came with suddenly being given such a responsibility, and he wished to provide as much support as he could over such distance.

He thought of Sansa then, with a pang, of the fate that might await her if he somehow didn’t manage to wiggle free. For a moment he felt resentment that Sansa should pay for Lyanna’s mistakes, for if it hadn’t been for Jon, he’d have refused the betrothal outright. But that wasn’t fair. In this, at least, the fault wasn’t with Lyanna, but with Robert and his impossible temper. Still, he’d hated the capital the moment he entered it again, and the idea of his only daughter being forced to live here, even aside from anything else...it was horrifying. Ned would stop it, he promised himself, he would.

At least Bran should be mostly unaffected by the changes in Winterfell, even if he missed Ned. And Jon, too, he supposed – he would probably be helping Robb, but still, most of the responsibility wouldn’t be on him. The two boys might keep each other company, different as they were.

Ned stood at Pycelle’s doors, and thinking fleetingly of Barbrey’s warning against him, he knocked.

The door was opened by a young serving girl, but when Pycelle spotted him he waved her aside and rose from the table he sat behind. “Lord Hand,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I merely wished to send a raven to Winterfell,” Ned explained. “Do you have some quill and parchment I could borrow?”

“Of course, my lord,” the maester muttered, and as he began to rummage around, looking for it, he muttered excuses about the lack of order in his room. Ned thought back to Barbrey’s warning more seriously. It did not seem possible that this harmless old man would be behind a murder of a Lord Paramount, and he knew Barbrey was heavily biased, and yet...it seemed reasonable that if Jon Arryn had truly been poisoned, someone as experienced and educated as a Grand Maester would know of it. The man had so many links in his chain it hung to his chest thrice over, instead of maester Luwin’s modest choker Ned was used to. Maester Luwin was an exception in the other direction, of course, for a maester of a great house – after the terrible experience with Walys, Ned had given preference to the man being northern and trustworthy to the number of links in his chain, meaning Winterfell likely had a maester with the least links of all great houses by far, but Ned had never found a reason to complain. At least not until recently, he amended, in the whole business with the warning from Lady Arryn.

But in any case, Pycelle, if his chain was to be believed, was a highly qualified maester, perhaps the most highly qualified of all maesters in the Seven Kingdoms. Was it possible he would not have spotted poison, if Jon had truly been poisoned? Was it possible he was getting on in years already? He muttered about his eyes not being what they used to be as he looked for a quill to offer Ned, but Ned doubted that Jon would have kept a maester who was too old to fulfil his duties properly. The position was too important for that.

So if the maester was still fully capable...did that mean there had been no poison, or that Pycelle was somehow culpable?

“Here, my lord,” the maester said finally, presenting him with writing implements, and Ned focused on what he could say to Robb – and to Barbrey. They had agreed on a series of code words he could write if he needed to impart secret information, but he had hardly discovered anything like that yet, and so there was no need for them. In the end, what he said North was: “Dear Robb, and all the others I love in Winterfell. We arrived safely to King’s Landing, and are settled comfortably. There has already been one Small Council meeting, at which I found that King Robert is even fonder of tourneys than when young, and that as always, money is of no object to him. Also had a chance to meet Lady Stark’s old friend, Lord Baelish, the Master of Coin. It appears their friendship is as strong as ever. I will write more when there is something to write. I trust all is well in Winterfell. I have complete faith in you, Robb, when it comes to running it. I pray for all of you every night, and ask that you pray for me in the godswood. I remain with you in my thoughts, your father, Eddard Stark.”

He finished the letter, and checked it for any mistakes, before he dried it with the sand he had to ask Pycelle to provide and then handed it over to be sent. It was a mere chance that he caught Pycelle’s reflection in the glass of one of his cabinets, but he did, and what he saw was the maester casting a quick eye over the content of the letter before he rolled it up to tie it to the raven he chose from his cages.

So there was something at least going on with the maester, Ned thought. It might simply be mere curiosity, he supposed, but he remembered Baelish’s words. ‘There is no one trustworthy in this city’. Perhaps he should ask the man about the maester? He might not learnt he truth, but he supposed it was true enough that there would be kernels of truth, and Barbrey always claimed that even lies reveal something about people. Ned only wished he had any skill at all in finding out what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was surprised no one had asked about Theon yet...so this is what's up with him.


	13. Bran II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion returns to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loved the discussion in the comments after the last chapter!

Lord Tyrion returned to Winterfell three moons after he had left.

He came without Uncle Benjen this time, just with a few other men of the Watch whom Bran didn’t like half as much, and that made Bran sad. It was a little strange, too, to see him without all the other people from the royal party.

Lord Tyrion was very interesting to Bran, not only because he was the only adult he knew that was the same height as him, but also because he could tell very interesting stories. Bran had heard one from him the last evening he had spent at Winterfell with Uncle Benjen, and he’d heard another one the night before.

But now he had another reason to like the Lannister man: he had put that terrible Ysilla in her place when she was being mean to Jon once again. 

They had been in the training yard, Jon giving Bran another lesson with a sword as some of the ladies watched and Ser Rodrick oversaw them carefully, and Bran had been clumsy enough with his parry that Jon hit him in the elbow, which couldn’t be as padded as the rest of him if Bran was to bend his arm, and it hurt enough that some tears had unwillingly sprung into his eyes.

Jon had apologized profusely even though it hadn’t been his fault, and that was when Ysilla Royce said, with her usual sneer: “I suppose that is what one can expect from _natural born children._ ”

Bran had frowned. Wynafryd wasn’t there to put Ysilla in her place, and Bran was wracking his brain for a good answer as Jon only stood and scowled, when an unexpected voice interjected to say: “If competence with a sword can only be expected of natural born children among the Royces, then I suppose it would explain why we’d never had a Royce champion in any of the King’s Landing tourneys.”

It was Lord Tyrion, standing a bit away from the ladies. He must have been watching the match too, and Bran just hadn’t seen him. He felt embarrassed that his mistake had been observed by so many people, but it was nothing compared to Ysilla, who flushed scarlet and said, in a tone of complete indignation: “My father is a great knight-”

“A shame then, is it not, that he passed none of the chivalric virtues on to his daughter?” Lord Tyrion observed simply. Then he turned to Jon, and added: “Remember what I told your aunt. What you embrace cannot be used against you.”

Bran didn’t know what that meant, but Jon had smiled and thanked him, so it must have been something nice, and everyone who was nice to Jon was great in Bran’s books.

Lord Tyrion was also very smart, and Bran wondered if he should ask him about the strange dreams he’d been having. There were his dreams about his direwolf, of course, but if it was only them Bran would not worry about them. After all, Jon had said he had the same kinds of dreams, even though he only seemed to have had a few, while Bran had them at least every other day these days.

And yes, these dreams were strange and he always remembered everything from them and they stuck in his mind more, and sometimes it seemed like the things he saw or heard in them really happened, but they were still less strange than the dreams with the three-eyed crow.

He had only had a few of these so far, but he immediately saw that they were the same as the wolf dreams in how detailed they were, how real they felt, and how well he remembered them once he woke up. They were, however, much stranger.

For one, there was a thee-eyed crow in them. Who ever heard about a three-eyed crow? Of course, everyone saw silly things in dreams sometimes, but that was different. Those were normal dreams. Bran never saw anything silly in his wolf dreams at all, they were filled with places and people around Winterfell that he knew well and with entirely normal things happening.

He never saw silly things in his three-eyed crow dreams either, except for the crow.

The crow talked, which was silly as well now that Bran thought about it, but somehow that had never occurred to him when he had been dreaming. The crow talking seemed entirely normal then, especially because it sometimes said very crow-like things, like asking for corn.

But sometimes it said things that Bran didn’t think any crows should ever said, things about wars and danger and the winter that was coming.

If there should be an animal talking about a winter that was coming, Bran couldn’t help thinking it should be a direwolf, not a crow.

He tried to imagine a three-eyed direwolf. But it seemed even sillier than a three-eyed crow.

Still, the dreams kept coming, and the crow kept talking to him, and Bran wanted to know what it could all mean. He had thought about who to ask and decided to test Maester Luwin a little. He knew he was smart and read many books, but he also knew that Aunt Barbrey always said they shouldn’t trust him too much and that he was ‘playing his own game’, whatever that meant, so Bran kept the bit about three-eyed crow to himself and asked about the wolf dreams first. The maester had just told him that there was nothing strange about dreaming about wolves. Bran had been unable to explain what he meant, or the maester had been unwilling to listen. Maybe Lord Tyrion would understand better?

To that end, Bran went and tried to find the man. It took him a long while, but in the end he succeeded in the library. Lord Tyrion was sitting there with some big book in front of him, almost bigger than he was himself, and Bran felt tired just looking at it, imagining having to read all of those letters.

“Lord Tyrion?” He said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Lord Bran,” the man replied, turning from the book to him. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I have been having strange dreams,” Bran confessed. “Very strange dreams. And you read so much, I thought maybe you could help me.”

Lord Tyrion smiled at him, which seemed like a good sign. “And what kind of strangeness would that be, little lord?”

“I dream that I am a direwolf,” Bran confessed to begin with, like with Maester Luwin. “Not just any direwolf, but mine. I dream that I’m running with him in the godswood, sometimes, and sometimes that I’m inside in Winterfell. And it’s always very real, and when I dream that I am outside my wolf is never here, but when I dream I am in the castle he always is.”

He had only realized the last bit recently, and at first thought that it was because he remembered if his direwolf was inside or outside, but a few days ago he had been sure the wolf was in but then dreamed of the godswood and in the morning he found him there. It was that, more than anything else, that really convinced him the wolf dreams were special too and that he had to find an answer to what they were.

“Hmm.” Tyrion gave him a long look. “And you have have an explantation for this, Lord Bran?”

Bran shook his head. “That’s why I came to you,” he said solemnly. “I just know they are different from any other dreams I have ever had.” Then he hesitated, but Aunt Barbrey, who was always very careful about everyone, liked Lord Tyrion, and Lord Tyrion was nice to Jon, and so he added: “Well, except for the ones about a crow with three eyes.”

“A three eyed crow, eh?” Lord Tyrion asked, sounding more interested now.

“Yes,” Bran confirmed eagerly, glad that finally, he seemed to have caught the man’s attention and was being taken seriously.

“And where is that third eye that the crow has?”

Bran was a little surprised by the question. “On its forehead,” he explained, “a bit above the other two. It flies around me and tells me to fly too, but I don’t know how.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would,” Lord Tyrion muttered. “This is very interesting, Lord Bran. And you say these dreams are like your wolf dreams?”

“They are,” Bran agreed.

“And do you know anyone else who has dreams like this, about animals or three-eyed creatures?”

Bran hesitated again, but Jon never told him to keep it a secret, so in the end he admitted: “Jon dreams about his wolf too, but never about a three-eyed crow.” He had not asked about anything else three-eyed, but he thought Jon would have mentioned it if he did.

Lord Tyrion nodded to himself. “Do you think your other siblings dream of their wolves, too?”

Bran frowned. That had not really occurred to him, because he didn’t see them spend as much time with their wolves as he did Jon. “Do you think they do?”

“I don’t know, little lord. But it seems worth a try, does it not?”

He was right, and so Bran asked. Robb seemed surprised by the question, and Sansa embarrassed, but they both confirmed they had had a few dreams like that, too. Robb hadn’t seemed to have noticed anything strange about them, but Sansa admitted they did feel a little more real than the usual ones.

None of his siblings, however, had any dreams about a three-eyes crow, or any other animals with more eyes than was normal.

Bran reported his findings to Lord Tyrion excitedly, and the man asked him once again if he was sure the dreams were really the same. Bran amended to similar enough. “It’s not really that I am the crow,” he’d explained, “and the dreams with it are much stranger. The wolf ones are just that I’m the wolf, which is not so strange, I think. Or is it? But they all feel real, not like normal dreams, and I remember them for much longer.” 

Hearing this, Lord Tyrion thought for a long time and then told Bran he would need to read some more books before he could give him any answers, and perhaps send some ravens, too. Bran went away thinking about what being clever like Lord Tyrion really meant. He’d known there was a lot of books, of course, but somehow until now he’d never considered there might be a lot of work, too, in the same way being very good with a sword needed work. Everyone had always told Bran that he needed to work to be good with his sword, and that he would need to work on his skill there his whole life if he didn’t want to go rusty, but with studying, he’d always imagined it was something only children did. Robb and Jon no longer had lessons with Maester Luwin, not in the same way he and Sansa did, and yet Lord Tyrion seemed to be working on his books the same way Ser Rodrick worked at his own sword training and that of his men.

He supposed that was another thing to ask Lord Tyrion about, once he was done with thinking about Bran’s dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the wolf dreams only start a few months later in canon, but I figured that it made sense to hasten it a little with the kids staying in Winterfell and closer to their wolves (in canon, Bran spends months unconscious, Lady is killed and Jon has to chain Ghost somewhere for large chunks of the day; only Robb, I think, would have the same amount of time with his wolf here as in canon, and I imagine his dreams would be the most rare here and on its own wouldn’t have been enough to take notice of at this point).


	14. Barbrey IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion has a talk with Barbrey.

Tyrion Lannister came to her with a serious expression only a few days before he was scheduled to depart for the south.

“My lady,” he said, “I have news for you that you will be inclined to mistrust. I beg that you give it more thought than you would normally have. A mere month ago, I would have thought it a folly as well, and yet...”

“What is it?” She asked, impatient about his long introduction.

“Lord Stark’s children have been having dreams,” he began, and then told her the most extraordinary story she had heard since she listened to her wet nurse’s tales. 

When he finished, she stared at him in incredulity. “I did not take you for a superstitious man, Lannister,” she said.

He sighed. “That was what I told myself, too, when I listened to the tales of the first few men of the Watch. But there were too many of them to wave it away, and then when Maester Aemon showered me a century old tome about magic...”

Barbrey’s lip curled. “Ah, maesters. Well, if trusting them got you into this predicament, then I no longer wonder at anything.”

To her surprise, he chucked. “My dear lady, I never do as a habit. If you knew Grandmaester Pycelle, you would understand why, for he is one of the more repulsive creatures I know, and Gregor Clegane is one of my father’s bannermen, so believe me when I saw that I have seen the worst humanity has to offer. But Master Aemon is too old to play any part in the political games of this realm, and too wise. Do you know why he went to the Wall?”

“I do not care for the stories of grey rats,” she spat. Her impatience was growing. What was all this nonsense?

“This one just might interest you,” he countered evenly. “Aemon was a grandson of a king, once, so far down the line of succession that no one thought anything about him going to the Citadel. But then many men died, and suddenly his younger brother was succeeding to the throne. That day, Maester Aemon took the black, to save his brother from political intrigues others would use him in. He’d stayed at the Wall ever since.” There was a flicker of...something...in Lord Tyrion’s face before he continued: “He’d stayed at the Wall even when his great niece and nephew were murdered by the my father’s henchmen in the Red Keep, and he was still willing to speak to me and share his wisdom with me in the end. No, I have no particular fondness for maesters, but this man does deserves our respect.”

In spite of herself, Barbrey was impressed. She hadn’t known this story, but if it was true, it truly did seem that this Aemon was one of the very few honourable ones. 

“What did he tell you, then?” she asked.

Lord Tyrion shrugged. “He showed me a book, a book of notes written by the man who had been sent to the Wall with him. His name was Brynden Rivers, and he studied magic. Maester Aemon had laughed at him at first, claiming that there was no such thing any longer. But Rivers convinced him, in time, and said there was magic to the North itself, too, and that he meant to discover it now he was at the Wall. They shared this endeavour for years, but nothing much came of it, and finally Rivers decided that he needed to go beyond the Wall to find the true source, and was never heard of again. A lunatic, most consider him. And yet what he writes in that book...it is not nothing, my lady, and matches very well with what little Lord Bran, especially, has been telling me.”

And so Barbrey listened, and then spoke to Bran and all of his siblings separately and listened to them too, and in the end sat in her solar with Lord Tyrion again, shaking her head. “Wargs,” she said, incredulous. “All of the children...well, perhaps not Robb, he could only remember very few such dreams, but still...” she shook her head again. “Mayhaps we should have killed those direwolves when we found them.” She’d always considered them a gift from the gods, but if they turned the children into wargs...

Tyrion shrugged. “I have read and heard enough of your stories on this topic in the last few days to know the wargs are villains in all of them, but people tend to fear what they don’t understand. And these direwolves are a powerful protection for the children, and if they have such control over them, then even more so.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Do you know something they would need protection from, Lannister?” She asked sharply.

He gave an elaborate shrug. “The last Hand of the King died under very suspicious circumstances,” he said. “And you know as well as I do that the king will press the betrothal to Lady Sansa eventually. Perhaps as soon as in half a year, a year at most, I expect. And then to the capital she goes, and my lady, I do not have to explain to you that it is a nest of vipers. I should know, I have lived there for long stretches of time.”

Barbrey closed her eyes and thought of Ned’s ravens, of his hints that there was some sort of connection between his wife and one of the chief plotters of King’s Landing. The Lannister was right, she realized. The direwolves were strong and incorruptible, and if the children could control them, they’d always be loyal. It was not something to give up, and it _was_ a gift from the gods. She should go to the godswood later and apologize for her doubt.

“I need to speak to the children,” she said, determined.

He inclined his head and got to his feet. “I will leave you to it, then,” he replied. “I wish you the best of luck.”

Yes, she mused, she would need that and more. For all that she prided herself of being ready for most things, this she had not expected.

She needed a moment to herself first, to arrange her thoughts and decide what she’d tell the children, and how she’d approach the whole thing. After a moment, she rose from her solar and moved to the godswood instead. She owed the gods an apology, and she was in need of their guidance.

She took some seeds of the stash she always kept in her room to give as an offering and an apology, and after she planted them in the space designated for such things, she knelt before the heart tree and prayed and prayed, until finally the leaves whispered above her, indicating the acceptance of her prayer, and she exhaled in relief.

She felt calmer now, more at peace, as she always did after a visit, and rose to go and speak to the children.

She went to see Bran first, because she understood that was where it all began. 

“I spoke to Lord Tyrion, Bran,” she said, trying to keep her tone gentle, worried he would think he did something wrong.

It turned out, however, that that worry had been entirely misplaced. Bran was excited instead. “Isn’t it so interesting?” He said. “We all have dreams about our direwolves! Only I dream of the crow, though. I wonder what it means...”

“The wolf dreams seem simple enough,” Barbrey said lightly, almost choking on the words because there was nothing that was going to be simple about this at all. “It seems that you and all your siblings are wargs.”

That made Bran frown. “Wargs?”

“Yes,” Barbrey said, trying her best to appear completely unconcerned. “I know you know stories in which the wargs are the villains, but it’s like with any other people: they can be good or bad. Humans can be bad, very bad, as you know, and wargs can be very good, too.” At least she hoped that was true, but what else was she supposed to tell him?

He accepted it easily, though, and only said: “And the crow dreams?”

Barbrey took a deep breath. “That...Lord Tyrion says it’s something even more special. He says that the books he’d read think that only someone who is a warg can have this skill, but that very few wargs do. He says it’s a special magic of the North, but that he wasn’t able to find out that much more about it. He promised to look in the libraries in the south.”

Bran frowned. “But if it’s northern magic, why should the south know anything about it?”

Barbrey sighed. “You are right, and Lord Tyrion admitted it’s not likely he will find anything, but he wants to try, and that is very good of him. He says sometimes books can travel with nobles and then be left behind when the noble unexpectedly dies, so he says that something might have been left behind in a war or something like that. He told me to warn you, though, that the chance is small.”

Bran nodded in understanding. “And if he doesn’t find anything?”

Barbrey shrugged. “Maybe the crow dreams will stop on their own,” oh how she wished they would, “or maybe the crow will tell you what they mean one day. Lord Tyrion said that those who have the third eye are supposed to be very smart and know many things, and so if the crow knows so much, why shouldn’t it tell you something?”

Bran seemed to like the idea. “I’ll try talking to it the next time I see it!” he promised.

Barbrey wasn’t sure that was what she wanted, but she supposed it couldn’t do any harm.

She wondered if she wished Ned was here or not. It was certainly something he should know of his own children, and he could have given them some support, but...this was one of the ways Ned’s childhood in the south had influenced him the most. He didn’t believe in northern stories. He didn’t even really believe in the Others. Barbrey had stopped arguing about it a long time ago, but this would have forced him to confront it, and she didn’t know how he’d react. In a way, it was a relief that there was no way to send a raven about this south. It had to stay as secret as possible, and she would have to impress it on all the children. Certainly, they couldn’t risk a southern grey rat reading the news. In fact, she realized, she’d have to emphasize not telling Maester Luwin most of all. The children seemed to like him quite well, and it just wouldn’t do. Who knew who he’d share it with.

She said as much aloud, and Bran frowned. “I told him about the wolf dreams already,” he admitted guiltily. “Not a word about the crow, though! And it doesn’t matter, anyway, because he thought the dreams weren’t anything.”

Barbrey sincerely hoped that was true, and not just a convenient lie from the rat. “I have warned you against him, Bran,” she said, feeling tired.

“I know!” The boy insisted. “That’s why I didn’t tell him about the crow.”

“Why didn’t you come directly to me?” She couldn’t help but wonder.

“I thought that if you ever heard about anything like this, you would have told us,” Bran explained earnestly. “You always try to tell us so many things you know about, but you also often say that there are many things you don’t know, and I thought this needed someone who read a lot of books.”

She gave him a fond smile. “Next time,” she told him, “come to me. If nothing else, I can tell you if it is something to ask the maester about or not.”

“I promise,” Bran said solemnly and she smiled again, before rising from the chair in his room.

She had three more children to speak to. She would go to Sansa next, she decided. Jon, it seemed to her, had already partly come to terms with what was happening, and he was older. But Sansa, the perfect little lady...she might struggle with the idea of being a warg, and Barbrey wished to provide what comfort she could.


	15. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion leaves Winterfell, and Jon talks to Ryella.

Tyrion Lannister was leaving Winterfell with a sizeable Stark guard to see him safely to White Harbour and to a ship. Jon couldn’t help but wonder what his father would think about that. He hated the Lannisters, Jon knew, but no one could deny that Lord Tyrion had given them much help, for all that he insisted it had in reality been given by Maester Aemon, and that he was only passing it on.

It was the last sign of the royal visit leaving the North, too, except of course for Father still being away and Sansa’s companions being in Winterfell instead.

Jon smiled when he thought of them. Even thinking of Ysilla, as much as he despised her, made him smile, for it made it all the more obvious that the rest of them liked him when they came to his defence, each in their own way. Wylla Manderly had seemed about to pound Ysilla into the ground just the other day.

The thought of Lady Ryella made him smile the most, though. He had always loved his siblings, but he had always known he was very different from them. With Ryella, though, he felt like there was finally someone who truly understood him, and he felt less alone in the world.

Then he frowned as he wondered what she’d think if she knew he was a warg. She wasn’t of the North, so perhaps she didn’t know the stories of the Warg King and others so well, but still. Would she be afraid of him? Jon didn’t want her to be afraid. He rather liked the idea of his and his family’s enemies trembling before him, but not ladies he liked.

He had to make sure to keep training Ghost, so that the wolf would never harm anyone innocent even during the day, when Jon wasn’t connected to him. Then ladies wouldn’t be afraid of him, but would see him as their protector.

He knew that wargs often could slip into their animal’s mind even during the day. Lord Tyrion and Aunt Barbrey had talked about it, but Jon wasn’t sure he wanted to try. Aunt Barbrey told them all that they could, but only with her supervision in case something happened. Bran sounded very excited at the idea, whereas Robb and Sansa had looked very hesitant. Jon, himself, was somewhere in between. He liked the idea, in truth, but...people already looked at him strangely for being a bastard. If he was a warg, too, how would they look then?

Then he thought of Lady Stark finding out, and couldn’t help feeling a beat of satisfaction. He was sure that if she knew all of her children were wargs, she would faint dead away. If nothing else, it was the final proof that whatever she had wished or hoped for, her children were as northern as the North itself.

He brought his mind back to the present as Lord Tyrion stopped in front of him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jon Snow,” he said. “You’re certainly unlike any bastard I’ve met before.” It was amazing, in what different tone him and Ysilla could say the word.

“It was a pleasure to meet you as well, Lord Tyrion,” he replied. “I thank you for the assistance you’ve given us.”

The lord waved his hand. “As I’ve told your aunt already, it was for my own curiosity. This is the most interesting thing I’ve encountered since seeing the old dragon skulls in the Red Keep as a boy. It’s good to know there are still wonders left in this world, you know.”

Jon supposed it was different when you weren’t one of those wonders. “Safe journey to you, my lord,” he said.

“Ah, with all those men your brother is sending with me, it can’t be anything but!” The man replied good-naturedly, then took the necessary help with mounting his horse.

He turned around, raised his hand in one last greeting, and gave the order to ride out, twenty men around him.

Yes, Jon supposed he really did deserve that much.

Besides, as Aunt Barbrey had pointed out when she’d suggested it, the last thing they needed was antagonizing the Lannisters because Lord Tyrion died while in the North.

They watched the party leave, and once they were gone there was the usual empty silence that followed a departure. 

Jon turned his steps to the godswood – it wouldn’t hurt to pray for a safe journey, he supposed, and as Bran had lessons and Robb didn’t indicate he needed him right now, it was a good way for Jon to break out of the awkwardness.

Lady Ryella fell into step beside him. “Do you mind if I accompany you?” She asked in her quiet voice, and he easily agreed.

She worshipped the Seven, he knew, but still, she seemed to like and appreciate the godswood, finding it, as she said, impressive and soothing at the same time. As Jon felt exactly the same way about it, he knew precisely what she meant.

They walked in silence until they reached the heart tree, where she stepped to the side and allowed him a moment to pray. When he rose, he found her sitting on a log, her favourite place to settle. “I will miss him,” she said slowly, as if the words were a result of careful consideration. “I’m not sure my father would approve of him – he doesn’t exactly seem very honourable – but I think he is, really.”

Jon agreed. “I think he likes to pretend he isn’t,” he said, thinking about it.

Lady Ryella contemplated that idea, then agreed. “It’s so strange,” she said, “why would someone not want to seem honourable?”

Jon shrugged. “His brother is the Kingslayer, and he seems to get on with him from what he said. Maybe he thinks that makes it unfashionable to be honourable among the Lannisters?”

Ryella shook her head at the mention of Jaime Lannister. “Can you imagine someone committing such a crime? Breaking the most sacred oaths? I never understand how King Robert could let him keep the white cloak...”

Jon rather thought it had something to do with Lord Tywin’s influence, but aloud, he said: “I always thought it was strange, how everyone focused on Ser Jaime breaking his oath.”

She frowned at him. “Strange? It is a terrible scandal! No other Kingsguard knight had ever done anything like that!”

“Yes, but I mean...everyone agrees King Aerys was a monster, don’t they?”

Lady Ryella frowned. “Yes, but then if you think the king is a monster, you shouldn’t swear the oath to him, not swear it and then break it.”

That was a good point. Still. “Every man who ever lies with someone else than his wife breaks his sacred oaths,” he said, “and yet I’m far from the only bastard running around.”

She grimaced a little, as she did every time he used the word for himself. He took care to do it often in her presence, thinking of Lord Tyrion’s words, and also thinking that it would be safer, perhaps, if he reminded himself of their difference in station. “Forgive me, but these men do a great dishonour too,” she said quietly.

“I agree,” he said immediately, because he did, and he knew his father did as well – he had admitted it many times plainly enough, that it had been his dishonour. “But no one else really seems to think so, at least not as much as with Ser Jaime. No one goes around calling them wife-cheaters, do they?”

She smiled at that a little, but then thought about it and said: “Perhaps they should.”

“You are right again,” Jon said, then added fiercely, “if I ever marry, I will never dishonour my wife in that way. Never.”

Lady Ryella gave him such a look at that that he flushed and looked away. “Anyway,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “I don’t see why Ser Jaime has a reputation so much worse than these men. Or the people who joined the Rebellion – they swore their oaths to king Aerys too, did they not? I understand that the king broke his own oaths to House Stark, and the prince to House Baratheon, but what about all the others? The king didn’t break any oaths to Tywin Lannister, and they used to be best friends someone told me, and yet he is not called a traitor by everyone, is he?”

Lady Ryella frowned. “Perhaps that is only because people are afraid to do so.”

It was so similar to what he had been thinking before that Jon had to smile a little at how their minds ran in shared paths. “Yes,” he said, “but it is not fair or just, is it?”

“No,” she agreed, “it is not.” Then she looked at him, and there was such an expression in her eyes it made Jon want to never look away even as his cheeks flamed. “I have never met anyone who cared so much about these things as you do, Jon,” she said quietly, “not even my father or Lord Arryn. You are so...” She shook her head. “It makes me so angry, that they say about natural born children that they are dishonourable. I have never met anyone as honourable as you.”

And then she put her hand on his, and Jon felt at the same time impossibly happy and swallowed by despair, because he knew perfectly well that it could never be.

He had never resented his role as a bastard, or not much at least. Yes, he would not inherit Witerfell, but neither would Bran, and the way he lived, it was truly very much like being Robb’s younger twin – and, Jon couldn’t help thinking, more fair than that. At least his mother truly was someone different, and not Lord Stark’s wife; it made it make sense, a little. To know you had the same parents as your twin and would not inherit only because you were born a few minutes later, well, that had to be frustrating, Jon imagined.

But Jon had never been unhappy, content with his future role as Robb’s protector. But now, with Lady Ryella taking his hand, he could see before himself all that he would never have. Even if he was legitimized by the king – and he knew his father would never petition for that – he would never be accepted by Lady Ryella’s father, who would always see the stain of his dishonourable birth. And in that moment, he hated it with everything he was.

He’d tried to discuss what he felt for Lady Ryella with Robb, to ask if he’d ever known anything of the sort, but Robb had just looked awkward. It didn’t seem like he’d had anything like that with the girls he’d liked – and even, in some cases, kissed – and what was more, he’d tried to cautiously warn Jon against hoping for anything. He’d looked embarrassed when he said it, and Jon had been embarrassed too, and maybe even a bit angry – did Robb think he didn’t know? He knew, he was painfully aware every moment he spent in Lady Ryella’s company, and he hated it more than anything.

Lady Ryella’s hand on his seemed to have started a fire deep in him, and he wanted nothing more, in that moment, than forget honour and press her to him. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Robb might prefer the petite, pretty Alyssa, but Jon would always see more in this amazing girl whose chiselled face seemed to perfectly mirror the strength of her character and convictions, and he wanted to take her face in his hands and-

He tore his hand away, flushing brightly, and abruptly rose from the log.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she blurted out. “I shouldn’t have- what was I thinking, what must you think of me-”

He shook his head, feeling almost wild. “We can’t,” he said. “We...we can’t.”

She only nodded, and they left the godswood silent and subdued, avoiding each other’s eyes, and Jon headed immediately to the training yard. He needed to hit something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case someone wants to ask about chaperones and the honourable Ryella being inappropriate, middle ages weren’t quite as strict about that as the 19th century. Certainly you were supposed to be a virgin at your wedding, but the rules about “never alone with a man” weren’t so set in stone.


	16. Tyrion III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion travels south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: Tyrion on a boat! That was so popular in ADWD, I was sure everyone wanted to see it in fanfic as well! (He manages to get off the boat within the same chapter, though, so that should give you some hope.)

Tyrion had gratefully accepted the suggestion of sailing back to King’s Landing instead of travelling by the Kingsroad. Not only was it faster and more comfortable, but it would allow him to see yet another part of the North. He was unlikely to travel so far again in his life, so he liked taking in as much as he could.

He was curious, though, about how well horses usually fared on these river barges that they were using now to travel down the White Knife. His own was mild and well trained, but war horses, he imagined, must have a much harder time. The river was deep enough, but not too wide, and so the boat was narrow as well, and the horse hardly had any freedom to move at all. But perhaps the northern horses were trained for this. He wouldn’t know, as his escort had left their horses when they boarded the barges. He would have too if it wasn’t for the fact that he needed a specially trained horse for his special saddle to be entirely safe, and so he had no intention of leaving this one behind and starting again with a new one in King’s Landing. He’d been afraid it would make traveling on the river impossible, but he’d been quickly corrected on that score.

At any rate, the travel was well arranged. After every day’s journey, there were places designated for rest, and though they were usually only rough wooden cabins with some hot soup and very little ale on offer, it was still better than nothing, and Tyrion was glad to get off the boat and put his feet on firm ground and between walls that protected him from the cold that tended to seep from the water.

Then, after ten days of this, the hills and mountains on their sides opened up, and a tributary almost as wide as the main river joined them. They slept in that place in a well-supplied inn, and the next morning they boarded a much bigger, more comfortable barge, where Tyrion could stop worrying one wrong step of his horse would bring them all over – as much as the men who rowed had done their best to convince him it was impossible even before.

Now they were in a wide, open plain, and Tyrion could look around himself as much as he pleased. It was still undoubtedly the North – the ground showed signs of being affected by frost, it was far from the lush greens that one could see in the Riverlands in late summer – but still, this was the most familiar to the lands south of the Neck he’d seen so far.

It took them another ten days to sail down this part of the river, and Tyrion’s eyes widened when they fell on the walls of White Harbour. It was the first true city he had seen in the North so far, and he understood now what it meant when it was said that the Manderlys had brought south to the North.

He had met both of the Manderly girls in Winterfell, and they seemed like charming ladies. The younger one reminded him of his brother Jaime somewhat, though he would never be foolish enough to say so out loud and insult the ever-honourable Starks. The older one, however, was even more than charming: she was smart. Lord Stark – or rather, Lady Dustin, he suspected – had done very well in securing these girls’ companionship for Lady Sansa.

He carried long letters from both girls to their family now, a reason – if one was needed with all the Stark guard he had – to see him well welcome in the castle, and well welcome he was. It was fascinating to see, too, that blend of North and South, both in architecture and in custom of the place.

“It is a great pleasure to have you here, my lord,” Lord Manderly told him, sitting in his great hall and offering him bread and salt, Tyrion gladly partaking of the rite. “We do not often receive visitors from the West, and though I understand you have not lived there for some time, I hope you will still regale us with some stories of those parts of Westeros that are more distant to us than Braavos is.”

It was true, Tyrion realized – he had never thought about it, but distance notwithstanding, for there wasn’t that much of a difference, it was much easier and faster to travel to Braavos from White Harbour than it was to travel to Lannisport. But then again, it was a mere week’s journey to Pentos from King’s Landing when winds were good, and yet he’d never been. Travel time was not everything.

“I will be glad to find what amusing tales I can, my lord, though perhaps after I’ve had some time to refresh myself and shake the dirt of the road?”

“Oh, of course, of course! There will be a feast tonight, and we will all be glad to hear it then,” the fat lord said. “For now, my servants will show you to your rooms, and see to the men that came with you as well.”

Tyrion muttered the polite phrases of thanks, and headed towards some rest with relief. Lord Manderly reminded him of Mace Tyrell somewhat, little as he knew the man, only he couldn’t shake the feeling that in case of Lord Manderly, there was, in fact, rather more of a mask to his good-hearted foolishness. After all, Lady Wynafryd must have gotten her smarts from someone, and as it would turn out later, it was unlikely to be from one of her parents.

The feast in the evening was quite beyond Tyrion’s expectations, though he had to concede that the lord, given his girth, likely took every opportunity for a feast he could. As Tyrion was entirely in agreement with that, even if more for the drink than for the food, he could hardly begrudge him that.

The food was good, though. Very good, better than in Winterfell he couldn’t help feeling. Not that he’d been fed badly while there, but the food, while plentiful and rich enough, had been somewhat...uninspired.

Lord Manderly, with his many different meat pies and as many kinds of fish and seafood as one could dream of, was anything but uninspired.

“What is this?” Tyrion asked Lord Manderly as he feasted on a delicious piece of mysterious meat.

“A sea snail,” the lord replied, sucking an oyster. “Do you not eat them in King’s Landing?”

“Not much, no,” Tyrion admitted. In spite of being by the sea, seafood had never been such a big part of the royal table, except for fish. “And that – is that a jellyfish?”

“Oh, yes,” Lord Manderly agreed enthusiastically. “They’re tricky to cook, but a true delicacy!”

“Or so my father insists,” Ser Wendel, the lord’s younger son, seated on Tyrion’s right, added. “One of our bannermen had them in Braavos and liked them so much he brought back a cook who can prepare them as a gift to his liege lord, and they caught my father’s fancy. No one else quite appreciates them as much.”

After such an introduction, Tyrion simply had to try, but found that he rather had to side with Ser Wendel. “I will leave this delicacy to you, my lord,” he said mildly, and took some wine to wash down the taste.

Lord Manderly laughed. “More for me, then,” he said cheerfully.

“Father,” Ser Wylis, his elder son, said fussily, “are you certain- it could be detrimental to your health.”

Lord Manderly laughed again. “I would rather die sooner with my belly full then old and hungry.”

Ser Wylis looked worried, and Tyrion wondered if there was something actually the matter with the old lord, or if the son was simply overly fussy. His wife certainly seemed to be the latter, commenting on everything Ser Wylis put on his plate. That ship has sailed a long time ago, Tyrion thought when looking at Ser Wylis size, which was almost equal to his father.

He spent a few days in White Harbour before he set sail south, with his own two men and a few the Manderlys sent with him, as the Stark guards have returned to Winterfell and they were, as they said, very obliged to him for bringing the letters. He rather wondered if there had been some other message travelling, one hinting at the service he had provided to the Starks and implying that he should be well taken care of as a result.

And with that, his mind was back at the incredible things he had witnessed in Winterfell. It tended to run in that direction ever since his departure, whenever he was not otherwise distracted. It was true after all, what he had said to Jon Snow: he had not seen anything so wondrous since he had been a child.

His own mind still scarce dared believe it, but he kept in mind what Maester Aemon had said about trusting those that were trustworthy. And besides, he was never one to argue with facts. In truth, Maester Aemon himself had been near enough to convince him on his own – well, him and the Bloodraven’s notes. He had left the Wall with his mind torn in two, uncertain and doubting everything. Many different explanations occurred to him, including that it was all some kind of elaborate setup to make him look a fool, agreed between Benjen Stark and the Targaryen, but even they could not have falsified Bloodraven’s writing and persuaded all those rangers of the Watch to whisper between themselves so convincingly.

Still, Tyrion was not certain what would have happened if he had not spoken to little Lord Bran in Winterfell, if he had gone south with only second-hand knowledge. Perhaps he would have convinced himself it was all a fabrication in time, or at least that it was not relevant to his time. As it was, though, it was one thing to believe magic existed in the past, and another to see it with his own two eyes, to hear a Stark child describe events they should by rights have no knowledge of at all. 

As he was a doubting man by nature, he had performed many experiments, keeping watch in the hall in front of little Bran’s quarters to make sure the boy did not leave them as he had quiet one-sided conversations with his wolf. Sometimes, little Bran knew nothing of them, but sometimes he was able to report near everything that Tyrion had said. Once, he had even managed this with Jon Snow and his Ghost. After that, there was little doubt left in his mind, because it would have meant doubting his own faculties, and he had never been inclined to that.

So. There was magic in the North, at least in the form of skinchangers, and possibly something deeper and more complicated in the secrets the three-eyed crow was guarding. And that meant there were likely wights, too, dead men walking, and perhaps even spectral Others hiding deeper in the North. Commander Mormont had certainly hinted as much as he bid Tyrion his goodbyes.

As he looked out to the sea, Tyrion inevitably thought of dragons, as he had many times before. If the northern magic was returning, for good or bad, why not those magnificent beasts, he asked the gods. He knew it did not follow: Bloodraven’s magic seemed to have worked even when all the dragons were gone already. But still, he couldn’t help wishing and hoping. Somewhere out there, he thought to himself, looking towards the southeast, is Valyria, the home of dragons. Would that I could see one fly again before I die.


	17. Catelyn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn reflects on her life in the capital, on an old friendship renewed, and on a new friend she made.

Seeing Petyr again was like a balm for her soul.

She had thought her childhood was lost to her forever: her father would never accept her back home, her brother must hardly remember her and would be an entirely different man from the child she had known, her sister, judging by her letters, had grown nervous and paranoid in her years in the capital, even before her husband was murdered…

But Petyr was still here, still happy to see her, and still very much like the boy she remembered.

His devotion used to make her uncomfortable, but now it was like he was giving her water and she’d been dying of thirst. She would never break her marriage vows, with him or anyone else – she would not shame herself in such a way, she was not some whore – but just to know she was loved by him, like she had never been loved by her husband...that was something that suddenly made her entire life so much more bearable.

And he didn’t push. She’d been afraid he would, especially since it must have been obvious to him that she and Lord Stark did not have the best of relationships, but he never asked for anything she was unwilling to give. He was just there, as a pillar of support, and she was eternally grateful.

At first she had hesitated about how much she should confide in him, but when he looked at her with his compassionate eyes and hinted that he had a very good idea, she broke and told him everything, about Lord Stark’s humiliation of her with his bastard, about how she was barred from her own children who now barely knew her or liked her, about all the indignities she had had to suffer at the hand of Lady Dustin.

He looked stricken and hurt on her behalf, and was full of compassion for her, and incredulity that the honourable Starks would do something like that. “It seems,” she had told him, tear-eyed, “that they understood something quite different as honour that we Tullys do.”

He had embraced her, then, and she let herself be comforted.

She spoke with him every day now, at least for a little while, though usually in public places where she could not, at his caution, say too much. “The gossips at court would be eager to besmirch your honour,” he had said bitterly, “and we must not give them an opportunity.”

But from time to time, there was the rare chance to speak to him in true privacy, when walking on the walls of the Red Keep where no one was in hearing, and she cherished those occasions most of all.

Apart from listening to her woes, he was teaching her about King’s Landing as well, about whom to trust (no one, according to him) and who was dangerous, who spied for whom, who kept whose alliances and even who was sleeping with whom. “I know you might not want to hear about that,” he had told her, “but these things are important. Bonds are formed in a bed that carry over into politics.”

He was right, of course, and so she consented and he told her about many scandalous affairs, the most shocking of which was Lord Renly and Ser Loras. That, she couldn’t help thinking, was incredible, yet he was deadly serious when he explained their relationship, and how it was likely to be the basis of a more firm political alliance than the king’s or Lord Stannis’ marriage. Catelyn had taken to discreetly watching them when they were in company together, but she had to admit that there was nothing improper that she could see. But then again, this was King’s Landing. Everyone here knew how to play a role to perfection, or at least everyone, according to Petyr, who managed to survive here more than a year.

“You must be as good as the best, Cat,” he insisted quietly, one day as they walked the walls. “I will not have you succumb to the players of this place.”

She saw the worry in his eyes, and decided to do her best for him. After all, it was not as if she wished to return North in disgrace. She was a daughter of the south, and with such a capable teacher as Petyr, she would thrive here.

Not all of her time, sadly, could be spend in so pleasant a company.

As the Hand’s wife, and the second most important woman in the kingdoms, she had certain responsibilities, or at the very least there were expectations. The first among which was that she was the only one who even approached the Queen in status, and so they were expected company for each other.

With any other woman, it would have been a blessing.

They had much in common, too, bound in unhappy political marriages as they were, and both of them deeply loving of their children, but Catelyn could not forget her sister’s warning.

Was the Queen a murderess?

In case she was, Catelyn did not wish to become too close to her, and could not allow herself to trust her.

Not that the Queen seemed to want her to. She could be pleasant company, and for most of their ride south, she had been, sharing her experience of King’s Landing and advice for Catelyn on how to live there, how to learn to navigate it as a newly arriving highborn woman. Once they arrived in the capital, however, it was different.

The queen had her own ladies here, though not as many of them as Catelyn had expected, and she was no longer required to keep her amused. As a result, she was only asked to dine with Cersei Lannister occasionally, and during those times, it seemed as if the queen exerted herself less to be companionable.

“This is a nest of vipers,” Petyr had told her, “and the queen is the greatest viper of all.”

Catelyn kept it in mind and did her best to be always polite and pleasing to the queen, but she found that, as the weeks of their stay in the capital went on, she enjoyed her time with the queen less and less, and her smiles seemed more and more false.

Perhaps the novelty of being in her presence was simply wearing off. After all, Catelyn hadn’t been in the presence of royalty that many times before, and always only briefly. She had, she admitted to herself, been somewhat charmed before by the splendour of it all, compared to the cold, dreary North.

But now it had been almost two moons since they’d arrived, and she was beginning to see the people of King’s Landing for what they really were.

Yes, she supposed it was entirely possible that the queen was a murderess.

But was there a way to prove it to the king? That, she supposed, was what her husband was trying to find out, and therefore it wasn’t any of her business.

At least there were other people to speak to, when the queen did not demand her attention and Petyr had no time for her. Especially now, with just a few days left until the tourney in Lord Stark’s honour, the city was crowded to bursting, but even without it, the court was full of ladies who had tried, and failed, to gain the queen’s friendship, and now they turned to Catelyn as their next hope for an influential friend.

But this, at least, Catelyn was used to.

It had been a long time, of course, but still, she _was_ the eldest daughter of a Lord Paramount, and she had had female companions when she was young, especially before her mother died. She knew what it was like, to have girls vying for her favour, and it was not so very different here with these adult women. Be it as Lady Catelyn or Lady Stark, what she needed to do was to separate those who only wished to use her from those who could offer genuine friendship.

In this, too, Petyr was helpful.

He warned her against some for being ruthless opportunists, and of some others he stated bluntly that they were below Cat’s notice for anything but some words of charity. He said it harshly, but she was glad to have someone who paid these things proper attention. It was never quite observed in the North, not the way it should be, Jon Snow being the most glaring example of that, and it was reassuring to know that Petyr paid attention to such things.

Of course, she thought with a pang, he paid attention because he had once been thought to be beneath her attention, too, but it was different now. He was one of the king’s advisors. He would still not be considered highborn enough for her to marry, but as a friend he was entirely appropriate, and she was grateful for that, at least.

There were many ladies he could tell her little about, though – as he had said, he focused mostly on the men at court, and so he could sometimes offer advice about their husbands or fathers, but that was all – and so Catelyn was left to sort through them herself. It took time, and careful navigating, but Catelyn found that she enjoyed it, that it was something that she could direct and in which she could make her own decisions and use the social graces she had been trained in as a girl.

And after a month, she had the first results.

She had liked Lady Chelsted from the start. Petyr recommended her, she was amiable yet interesting company, an a moon’s turn of conversations did not reveal any suspicious circumstances, anything too grasping about her, any tendency to over-flatter. Lady Chelsted was Catelyn’s age, or similar enough, but had been living at court since her marriage, and so had much useful information to give her.

“The Queen, ah, keeps herself apart,” she told Catelyn one day as they sat over their embroidery in the Tower of the Hand. Thankfully Catelyn had her own set of rooms there, and did not have to contend with her husband at all if she did not wish to. “She is very busy, of course – the King does not take interest in everyday matters of the realm, and though most of the ruling is of course done by your husband, the queen does do her part to make certain everything goes smoothly.”

And did her part include murder?

Catelyn shook herself again, reminding herself once more that it was not her business, though she would certainly feel more comfortable if she knew, one way or another.

“I understand, of course,” she said aloud, “being queen must bring many responsibilities. Is that why she has so few ladies of her own?”

“Perhaps,” Lady Chelsted said evasively, which of course meant no.

There was a short silence as they focused on their work, then Catelyn asked: “And what about my sister? What company did Lysa keep, when she lived here?”

Lady Chelsted did not seem much comforted by this change of topic. “Lady Arryn,” she said after a moment, “kept plentiful company when she first came to the capital. I was, I confess, one of the many ladies she was intimate with, and we had a few good, cheerful years. But...the capital is not for everyone, my lady, and your sister...”

Catelyn only nodded. Lysa would not be well suited to it. Nor was Catelyn, not in the same way the queen was, but she at least had always been stronger than Lysa. The strain on Lysa’s nerves must have been terrible.

“One by one, she stopped trusting her ladies,” Lady Chelsted said, “and dismissed us from her company. I lasted longer than some, but in the end...”

“Was there a reason for your dismissal?” Catelyn asked, then hurried to add: “Not that I wish to blame you, I know that Lysa can be...sensitive, but...”

“I understand, my lady,” Lady Chelsted said evenly. She hesitated for a moment, then uttered one quiet word: “Jealousy.”

Catelyn was surprised. Not that Lysa was jealous – she had always been so – but that she would be jealous of her husband. Had there been some fondness in the end, at least, between her and Jon Arryn?

She gave Lady Chelsted a smile. “Do not worry, my lady, I will not hold it against you.”

Nor, she thought grimly, will I be jealous of my own husband. If I ever had such thoughts about Lord Stark, they are all long gone.


	18. Bran III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran dreams.

“I’m ready to try again!” Bran insisted, to Aunt Barbrey’s uncertain look.

He had been trying every few days for almost a moon’s turn now, to connect with his wolf even when he was awake. It was hard. He often spent a very long time staring into his eyes and feeling he almost had it, but then he would grow tired and his eyes would close instead.

But last night, he had another dream of the three-eyes crow. He had them regularly, though not every night like his wolf dreams, and the crow was always telling him to fly. Bran had no idea what it meant.

Last night, though, had been different. He had tried to warg his wolf – tried extra hard – and had been so exhausted he had fallen asleep and slept through the night, until late in the morning. And the whole time, he’d dreamt.

It began as his usual dreams, with the three-eyed crow flying around him, cawing at him, encouraging him to fly. “But I don’t know how!” Bran had protested.

“You do,” the crow had insisted. “You must have courage, and take the leap.”

And suddenly Bran had found himself standing atop the highest tower of Winterfell, the crow flying in circles around him and repeating ‘fly, fly, fly’ until Bran had had enough of it and leapt of the tower, desperately trying to think of flying.

Whatever he did, though, he was still falling. It was a long way down, longer, Bran thought, than if he’d been falling in reality, and from his fall, he saw everything. Winterfell, first, with maester Luwin studying the sky with his new Myrish lens he’d shown Bran, and guards alongside the walls, and Hodor working, and Robb walking somewhere across the courtyard...and then he looked south and saw a great big city and a red castle on a hill inside of it, and there he saw his father, riding through with two guards by his side, his white and grey cloak bellowing behind him, looking very noble. And then he turned his eyes north and he could see the Wall, and the frozen lands behind it, and even further there was the heart of winter itself, and he screamed.

“You must fly,” the crow repeated, “the winter is coming.”

“These are my words,” Bran argued.

“These are true words,” the crow replied, and Bran could see it was right. “Now fly!”

Bran saw the ground rushing at him, but it wasn’t the ground under the tallest tower of Winterfell, it was the frozen ground of the far north, with bodies of dead dreamers strewn all around it.

“Fly!” The crow insisted, landing on his head and beginning to peck on his forehead, and Bran spread his arms and did.

Ho soared high above the clouds, wherever he wantaed, fast, faster, and then dove down and flew up again, and it was the best feeling in the world. When he woke soon, he was so sorry to leave it behind he almost cried for the loss.

His direwolf was there, though, and as it jumped into his bed and began to lick at him, Bran smiled instead, and told the maid who came in: “His name is Summer.”

He spent some time sitting there, hugging Summer who was licking at his face and thinking of flying, before he clambered up and went to see Aunt Barbrey to let her know he wanted to try warging again. He felt different. He didn’t know why, but he was sure he would do better today.

His aunt acquiesced, though she looked worried, and they went back to Bran’s room together. 

Bran settled on the ground, leaning his back on the bed. He called Summer to his side again, hugging him and then looking into his eyes.

And suddenly he was looking at himself.

It was just for the barest of moments, because he was so startled he closed his eyes immediately, but when he opened them again and realized what must have happened, he grinned brightly. “I did it!” He called.

“You did?” Aunt Barbrey asked him a little dubiously.

“I did,” Bran confirmed, a little irritated that she didn’t believe him. “Just for a little moment, I saw myself out of Summer’s eyes. Can I try again?”

“Go on then,” his aunt said, sounding curious in spite of herself.

So Bran looked at his wolf again, and this time wasn’t startled when, soon afterwards, he saw himself instead.

He jumped up and walked around the room a bit, intrigued by the feeling of having four legs, before wagging his tail at his aunt. Having a tail was strange, too.

“Bran?” His aunt said, sounding uncertain.

He turned to her and nodded his head, even if the movement was a little awkward like this. It was all very tiring, though, and he felt himself slipping back into his own skin.

The wolf padded closer and Bran smiled, exhausted but happy, and patted his head.

His aunt looked a little disturbed, though, and after a moment, said: “Never do this where people could see, Bran. It looks...strange.”

Bran frowned. “Strange? Why?”

“Your eyes...they go unfocused, and you...well, you breathe, but otherwise you look like you are dead. You scared me, and you would scare anyone else who saw this. Please be careful,” his aunt urged him.

“I will,” he promised. “It’s more tiring than I thought it would be, anyway. I think I’ll have a nap.”

“But you just woke up!” She shook her head. “I will tell Maester Luwin you are feeling unwell and so can’t have lessons, but he will want to examine you. Whatever you do, don’t tell him the truth.”

“I know, Aunt,” Bran muttered, irritated. He was not a child!

She smiled at him. “Have your rest, then,” she said and left the room, leaving Bran to his dreams.

The three-eyed crow was there again, and this time it looked distinctly smug. “See?” It said. “I told you you could fly.”

“I can!” Bran agreed cheerfully. Then he frowned. “But only because you helped me.”

“Well, you will get better,” the crow encouraged. “There’s still some time left.”

“Time? Time until what?” Bran asked, suddenly worried.

“You know until what. You saw,” the crow insisted.

Bran supposed he had, but he didn’t like thinking about it. “A long time, no?” He tried to assure himself.

“Not so long, no,” the crow said, and now it sounded sad. “Not long for me, a mere moment for my friends, and not all that long for you either. A day will come when you will need to come to me.”

That confused Bran. “Come to you? But where are you?”

“You will know, Bran. When the time comes, you will know all. For now, grow strong, and learn what you can without me. I will be in your dreams, and I will help as much as I can.”

“Was what you showed me before true?” Bran wondered. “Did I really see my father?”

“You did,” the crow confirmed.

“Can I see him again?”

“I cannot always carry you,” the crow replied, sounding almost mournful. “Not until you learn to fly on your own will you see so far again.”

Bran scowled at that. “But you can do it!”

“It tired me, and I do not have that much strength left. You needed to see, but now what you need is to learn. Be patient, be diligent, and practice. And for now...sleep.”

And then Bran was Summer again, and he ran out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, but including anything unrelated to Bran’s mystical journey felt wrong, and I didn't want to repeat GRRM’s original chapter more then necessary, which I would have had to do if I described the visions in more detail.
> 
> An argument could be made that Bran’s third eye would never open without the fall, of course, but I personally don’t like making people's talents contingent on suffering. It’s different when a disability gives an advantage in certain situations (like blind people being less affected by lack of light than sighted people), or when an amount of pain is a price you willingly pay for gaining some ability (like sore muscles when you train), but the whole idea of suffering in itself leading to some special kind of enlightenment...not my favourite narrative, so I’m not doing it.


	19. Jon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wrestles with his feelings.

Sparring with Robb, Jon had discovered, was entirely different when he knew Lady Ryella was watching.

On one hand, he was more motivated to try his hardest, on the other, he felt more self-conscious about every mistake. Thankfully, at least, they were working with swords, and at swords Jon was better than Robb, so there weren’t all that many mistakes.

Jon was also trying to look like he was better than Robb without embarrassing Robb completely, which was a difficult balance to strike. But he knew his brother cared about how he looked in front of the girls too – he might not really have as strong an interest in anyone as Jon had in Lady Ryella, but he found Lady Alyssa very charming, Jon was aware of that much – and perhaps even more importantly, he knew it was crucial that Robb’s authority in Winterfell was respected. Aunt Barbrey had repeated this to him several times, that Robb’s authority must not be undermined, and he’d seen it in her own behaviour: she never contradicted Robb in public, while she did that often enough with Father. With Robb, though, she always left any objections to things he did to the privacy of his solar, though once there, she was sometimes very sharp with her words, when she disapproved strongly. Then again, on the two occasions she’d done so, she’d been entirely right, Jon felt, and Robb truly had been too impulsive and had not thought the things he did through.

But, anyway, Robb needed his authority to be respected, and seeing his bastard brother trash him with a sword wouldn’t help with that. Aunt Barbrey hadn’t said as much, but Jon was smart enough to realize it on his own. Being a bit better was fine – he’d made it clear he meant to make it his business to be Robb’s protector, and for that, he needed to be good with his weapons. But he could not be too much better, at least not until years later, when Robb was established as Lord of Winterfell in his own right – and gods protect them from that happening any time soon.

And so Jon parried and lunged as best as he could, but never gave his blows enough force to knock Robb to the ground or do something similarly embarrassing. Finally he managed to land a hit which, if he hadn’t slowed it, would have bruised Robb’s neck badly, and his brother yielded.

They took a break, and as Jon went to get a drink of water, Lady Ryella appeared by his side.

“You’re going easy on him,” she said quietly, so that only he could hear.

Jon was flustered, and uncertain what to reply. He was very glad she noticed, but she didn’t want to embarrass his brother. And...would she see it as lying? He knew she despised lying.

“It’s fine,” she said quietly. “I won’t tell. But I think it’s very noble of you.”

Jon felt better, upon hearing that, than he ever had before in his entire life.

“Thank you, my lady,” he choked out, and she smiled at him and brushed his hand lightly before she rejoined the other ladies.

Jon felt the by now familiar sensation, as if a fire had started in his belly, and he gripped the railing firmly and closed his eyes tightly to get himself under control. How he wished to go after her, to take her hand and pull her aside, to exchanged kisses, to- he forcefully stopped his thoughts. Sometimes, when he was falling asleep or just woken up, he couldn’t help himself, but this was the middle of the day, and he felt shamed. He was sure she would never forgive him if she knew he even thought of dishonouring her like that. He would never do it, but still.

It was a blow for him, in a way, to realize that he could now understand the men who had bastards, if this was what they felt for their mothers. He still would not, but he never imagined the pull could be so strong. He had felt desire before, or what he had assumed was desire – he saw a pretty serving girl, or a visiting lord’s daughter with a nice smile, and he would have thoughts that were entirely inappropriate and unworthy of him. But they were not all that hard to overcome, though sometimes with the help of his hand, and he had thought that all those men who could not were weak.

But now...now he no longer thought so. Ryella was a lady who held honour in high regard as well, and so the option did not even exist. But if he had fallen in love with a lowborn woman? Or with a highborn woman like Lady Myranda, who seemed to flirt as easily as breathe and who Jon could not imagine falling in love and not being willing to explore the love beyond the bounds of honour and propriety? Would he have been strong enough to refuse?

He wanted to say yes, he wanted to believe himself above any such temptations, but the simple truth was that he did not know, and so he was even more grateful that Ryella was who she was.

Even more grateful, even as he hated it and wished she had been a simple serving girl at the same time.

He opened his eyes just to see Ysilla watching him with her cold eyes from a nearby balcony, and that, well, that did not help at all.

Distraction, he decided. What he needed was a distraction, or he would never get through this day.

Unfortunately, Robb was done with sparring as other duties called him away, and as it was only some routine matters with the steward, Jon was not needed for that. So he thought about what to do for a moment, then went to look for Bran.

For a week now, Bran had been slipping into his wolf’s skin, every day for just a little bit longer. The first time, Jon had only heard about it from Aunt Barbrey, but ever since then he’d been there to watch.

It was disturbing to see at first, how Bran’s eyes went unfocused and he became insensate, but gradually Jon grew used to it, got used to focusing on how Summer’s eyes changed when Bran did it, how the wolf became instantly even more alert and friendly and curious. Bran loved doing it, said it made him feel closer to Summer than ever before, and constantly chattered to Jon about how interesting it was. Bran knew that Jon was the one most interested: Robb and Sansa still seemed rather frightened of it, though neither would admit it, and of course it was a secret from anyone else.

But Jon _was_ interested, and what was more, he was growing curious himself.

His own wolf dreams haven’t stopped, though they weren’t as common as Bran’s, and he found that he wanted to experience them when he was awake, when he had some degree of control over what was happening. The only thing holding him back was the idea of what Lady Ryelle would think of him once she knew.

But then, she got over him being a bastard, didn’t she?

It was something she’d only told him recently, as they rode together on the edges of Wolfswood. She said that she’d been taught that bastards were dishonourable, so she hadn’t trusted him at first, but then she’d watched him and learned that he was more honourable than most men she’d known, and that she realized she’d been taught lies.

If she could change her mind about that, surely she could change her mind about wargs, too?

Jon knew this still didn’t mean, well, anything. It didn’t mean she’d be willing to marry him, that was for certain: she was the legitimate daughter of a lord, and different marriages awaited in her future. But Jon wanted to stay friends with her – it wasn’t all he wished for, perhaps, but it was something he wished for all the same – and he didn’t want his warging to come between them.

But he really, really wanted to try.

He had no future with Ryella, but he did have _a_ future, one of being Robb’s right hand, and for that, he couldn’t help but think, it could be very useful to be able to slip into Ghost’s skin. If nothing else, he could spy on any enemies of Robb’s more easily that way, for who took care how they spoke in front of a wolf?

No, he decided, doing what was right for Robb had to take precedence over what Ryella would think.

Finally determined, he collected his Aunt on the way, telling her of his intention, and then went to see to Bran, because if someone could help him with this, it was his little brother.

As it turned out, though, Bran’s advice was less than helpful. “I had the three-eyed crow open my third eye in a dream,” he told his brother, “that’s why I could do it. I could ask the crow to open yours, too?”

Jon, uncertain what it all meant, agreed. “Can I try without that?”

“You can,” Bran said, though he sounded very doubtful about Jon’s chances of success.

Jon settled on the ground, as he’d seen Bran do, and leaned on the wall. He didn’t even need to call Ghost to him, the direwolf came on his own and settled between Jon’s legs.

“Look into his eyes,” Bran said, “and try to just...let go. Don’t focus on warging, or on anything else, just do it.”

Jon, obediently, looked into Ghost’s eyes, and tried to give up directing his thoughts.

Unfortunately, as soon as he did that, they inevitably turned to Ryella.

It was just...how could he possibly think of anything else? She was...well, there was not a romance between them, exactly, because there could not be, but she had still made it clear to him what she would have wished for, had it been possible. After she first took his hand and he’d sprung away from her as if burned, they’d stayed away from each other for a few days, but then she’d come to talk to him while he was tending to his horse. Under the guise of helping him, she told him that she knew they could never have anything, but that she wished for his friendship, and that there was nothing dishonourable in an occasional touch between friends, surely, and that she’d prayed on it and asked the Maiden and that she was sure, completely sure, that there was nothing wrong.

How could Jon possibly tell her that he didn’t think it was wrong, that he just feared the temptation and his self-control? If he said anything like that, she would never as much as look at him again. He would prove right every single rumour about bastards she had heard growing up. And so he kept his mouth shut, let her touch his hand from time to time, and tried not to fear Ysilla’s suspicious, venomous looks.

He thought of such looks now, as he stared into Ghost’s red eyes. He’d have felt silly, if he hadn’t watched Bran slip into Summer’s mind so many times. Still, it was probably time to admit to himself that he was not clear-headed enough on this day to attempt anything of this sort.

He patted Ghost on the back, rose from the ground, and gave Bran an apologetic look. His little brother did not look surprised, and said: “I will ask the crow for you, I promise!”

But a few days later, Bran came to him to tell him, sadly, that the crow said his eye could never be opened. “You can still warg,” Bran assured him, “but you have to learn on your own. He can’t help you.”

Jon gave a sigh. He wondered sardonically if crows, too, disliked bastards. But he would simply do it the hard way, and perhaps when Bran was stronger and better at it, he would be willing to lend some assistance.

But first, Jon would have to wait for a time when his thoughts were less filled with Ryella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gone back and forth about tagging this Jon/OC, but I really do think it would be false advertising, giving an entirely wrong impression about this story, especially as it would be the only ship tagged, and double especially as the summary is pretty Jon-centric too. What do you folks think?


	20. Barbrey V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned's letter comes to Winterfell, and Barbrey has a talk with Jon.

The ravens Ned was sending were growing more disturbing by the day.

She had forced him to agree to a series of codes before he left, and for all he had argued and found it silly and unnecessary, she would bet he was now grateful for it.

His last missive spoke of spiders, and of crying many tears into his cup for Jon Arryn in King Robert’s company.

Barbrey sat over it, musing about what it meant. Spider was Lord Varys, she knew, the king’s Master of Whispers, and a mention of a cup indicated poison, as per their agreement, but the rest? Ned crying tears over it? With the king? Did he mean to say that the king killed his own hand? She very much doubted that: if nothing else, Robert was not the type for poison. 

She’d have assumed he meant Varys was the culprit, only he went out of his way to mention how useful spiders were in catching flies, so she rather thought there was something about the poisoning that Varys had figured out and told Ned. But what? Something to do with tears, and the king.

She shook her head, frustrated. Tears was not a code word they had agreed on, so it must be a reference to something she wasn’t catching, either the how the why or the who of the assassination. Who was unlikely: they had a very good idea who it was, if they were to believe the letter from Lysa Arryn, and if Ned had found proof to the contrary, he’d have made it more obvious.

So then, how or why. Tears...they could be an indication of why, but she could make no sense of it. Out of grief? Who would kill Arryn out of grief? That didn’t work, the man was too old to kill anyone in a duel or anything similar that could lead one to kill him in revenge. Or…could it have been some servant whose relative the Hand had sentenced to death? But then she was back at the ‘who’ part, and she was convinced Ned still believed the Lannisters were behind it.

So what other option was there, beside grief? The murderer being regretful? Ned would hardly bother to include that in a letter…

But as to tears being the how, she saw nothing it could be hinting at. After all, they knew, roughly, how Arryn was killed. It was poison, it must have been, nothing else would have looked like illness, however sudden. So the word tears would have to refer to some particular kind of poison. Was it some sort that was administered in drops? That could perhaps make sense in some context, but still, it seemed rather over-complicated.

She sighed, and thought about who could help her with this, who in Winterfell knew anything about poisons at all. It was not a Northern weapon, sadly – Ned, no doubt, would claim it was because it was without honour, but Barbrey was too practical by far for that. She was well aware it was chiefly because there were no poisonous animals and hardly any poisonous plants that grew there. It was simply too difficult to get one’s hands on any poison to make it useful. But, she realized, there was of course one person in every castle who always had poisons at the ready, and therefore also had to know a goodly amount about them...

After some consideration and hesitation, she swallowed her distaste and went to see Maester Luwin. He had been present when Lady Stark had explained the contents of her sister’s letter, so he knew about their suspicions regarding Jon Arryn’s murder. He would not be surprised if she asked some questions.

“Tell me, maester,” she demanded as soon as she entered, unwilling to prolong the visit, “what are the most common poisons that could kill a man the way Jon Arryn died?”

He frowned a little, thinking. “There are many poisons, my lady, that kill instantly,” he said, “but that, I suspect, was not used. For all that it was said that the old Hand’s death was sudden, I do not believe they meant this sudden, or everyone would have suspected poison immediately. Then there are a few that kill more slowly, but have very distinct symptoms which any maester would know. Of course, Grandmaester Pycelle could have kept the knowledge of this to himself, so it’s possible one of them was used if the grandmaester was a co-conspirator, so it could have been, for example, widow’s blood...but I have been reading what I could about poisons since that letter from Lady Arryn, and the one that is by far the most likely, in my opinion, is the Tears of Lys.”

Barbrey’s eyes widened, and she had to bite her lip to prevent from gasping. “Why do you believe this poison to be the most likely?” She wondered.

“It leaves no trace, my lady, and kills gradually enough that it may seem like a fast illness, with none too distinctive symptoms. It is extremely expensive, to my knowledge, so I would never suggest it in any less exalted circumstances, but to kill the Hand of a King? I’m sure many would be able to find the money.”

“Yes, especially those we suspect,” Barbrey muttered. This was it, then, what Ned had been trying to tell her. But what of the mention of Robert? If he was not the poisoner…

Then the precise sentence from the letter came to her: _Robert seemed near enough overcome by tears as well._

Of course. The King was not the poisoner, he was another possible victim.

Barbrey rose abruptly and left the maester’s room. She needed to speak to Robb. If this came out, or if the murderers succeeded, if there was to be a war, they must not be caught off guard.

As she descended form the tower, she thought about what this would mean. Ned would need to find irrefutable proof, she supposed, before he went to Robert. Not just of how, but of who. If the poison left no trace and the maester was on the side of the killers, that would be very difficult to do indeed. And in any case Jon Arryn was long buried, and the body would be decomposed. There’d be nothing to find by now.

How could Ned convince Robert, then? She knew they were friends, while the king did not particularly like the queen, but she was still quite sure that he wouldn’t simply take Ned at his word. If only because, given how surrounded by Lannisters he’d become, he clearly didn’t distrust the queen in any way.

No, she didn’t think there was an easy way for Ned to solve this, but ultimately, that was his task, not hers. Hers was to protect the North, or more precisely help Robb do so, and so she interrupted his training with a lance to ask for a private conversation with him and Jon.

The boys, sensing something grave had happened, followed her into Ned’s solar, where she turned her serious eyes upon them and said: “Your father has discovered that the same person who killed Jon Arryn is trying to kill the king, too.”

Robb was horrified, while Jon only gave a grim nod that made it seem he was unsurprised. She supposed that, for all they’d done their best to raise them as similarly as possible, the natural born son would still be more attuned to the grim ways of the world. Or perhaps it was Lady Ryella’s influence.

“This might mean war, if it comes out, or worse, if they succeed,” Barbrey warned them. “We need to be ready, and we need to fortify the North.”

That seemed to alarm Robb even more. “Won’t the king see it as a threat?” He wondered after a moment.

“He trusts the Starks,” Barbrey replied, “and anyway, he’s unlikely to know.”

“Moat Cailin,” Robb realized.

“Precisely. I will write to Barrowton myself, to arrange for a hundred archers.”

“I will ask Lord Manderly to provide the same, then – or even some more?” he suggested a little hesitantly. “His lands are more populous, after all...”

“Better ask him to arrange for keeping the garrison supplied with food, on top of his hundred men,” she advised. “It will be easier for him than for me, with his access to the sea.”

Robb nodded, then thought about it. “If we ask them to stay there long,” he said, “we might have to compensate him.”

“You might have to offer,” she agreed, “though I suspect he would refuse. He is proud of the riches of White Harbour, and in spite of his southerness, he is loyal. But hopefully, it won’t come to that. Hopefully, your Father will find a solution soon.”

Or, she thought, the war will start and we will have different worries altogether.

Robb left to arrange what was necessary, but Barbrey held Jon back, for there was more bad news she had received shortly before the raven from Ned, and it needed to be addressed, too.

She waited until the doors closed after Robb before she motioned for him to sit and spoke softly. “Jon,” she said, “Lady Ryella...”

“I know, Aunt,” he said bitterly. “I know she is not for me.”

Her heart broke for him. She knew perfectly well what impossible love was like. People often spoke of the pain of the unrequited, but she thought this was even worse. To know that both felt the same, and yet still there was nothing to be done about it, because duty or propriety commanded them elsewhere…

“Can I trust you not to get her in trouble, Jon?” She asked.

Jon looked immediately outraged. “I would never dishonour her,” he said, “never!”

She sighed at the reaction. “Jon, my dear,” she said, “surely you do know that I laid with your uncle before my marriage?”

Jon flushed, and bit his lip.

“Precisely,” Barbrey said succinctly. “So do not speak to me of dishonour, for you know I do not have a care for such things. Had I gotten with child with Brandon, I would have proudly borne it, and you would have had a bastard cousin to grow up with. So I will hear nothing about dishonour. However, I understand she might not wish for such a thing – it is not an easy fate for a woman to bear, nor for the child that comes from such a union, and it is regarded much, much worse in the Vale than in the North. And it would reflect badly on us, for we are responsible for her while she stays in Winterfell. So my caution to you, though your father would not praise me for it, is this: do what you will, but be careful and think of her first.”

“Father would more than just not praise you,” Jon muttered. “He would be furious.”

She laughed a little. “He would, at that,” she agreed. “And believe me when I say I would be much stricter with you had I thought you saw it as a simple dalliance. But I have been in your position, and I always believed in taking as much as you can for as long as you can, when you cannot have it all.” She shrugged. “But not everyone is like me, I know, and you must know your father would be proud of you for your determination. Just know that I will not judge you if you falter. And Jon, for gods’ sake, be careful! Do you know what forced me to finally have this conversation with you?”

Jon shook his head. “I supposed we have been – indiscreet.”

“Yes, you have – and I found out that Ysilla had been spreading rumours about you two around all of Winterfell!”

Jon flushed, and she knew it was in anger, not in embarrassment. “It is not her business!” He said. “We have not done anything wrong-”

“I believe you, Jon,” she said, coming around the table to press his shoulder. “But not everyone will. Ryella will have to deal with the possibility that Ysilla will spread the same news in the Vale once they go back. You need to be more careful. Your best chance is that there’s long enough between now and the ladies’ return that Ysilla forgets all about it, if you heed my advice.”

Jon looked frustrated, but he nodded after a moment, his eyes looking haunted. “May I go, Aunt?”

“Yes,” she replied heavily, and as he closed the door behind him, she rubbed her eyes tiredly. Of all the children, why did it have to be him to fall in love with a highborn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is unsure, this is a reaction to what happens in canonical Ned VII - ch. 30 of AGOT, where after day 1 of hand's Tourney, Varys seeks him out to tell him about the Tears of Lys and that the Lannisters want to kill the king.


	21. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns what's going on.

All of Winterfell was abuzz, and Sansa couldn’t help but wish it was for a happier reason.

Not that she knew what was happening exactly – no one would tell her anything. But she saw the worried faces and the increased activity in the training yard, and she’d heard a few things in her wolf dream last night, and she knew it was not good. Some news must have come from Father in the south, some news that alarmed everyone.

“It’s going to be a war,” Myranda announced cheerfully, appearing next to her.

“A war?” Sansa asked, shocked. “Surely not. I mean, over what?”

Myranda shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t read you family’s ravens. But why else would there be so much rushing of the soldiers? And I’ve seen any number of ravens flying away. If Robb is not calling his banners, he’s doing something very near that. He’s getting ready for a war.”

“Do you think the king gave the orders?” Sansa wondered.

Myranda laughed. “Well, your father’s not like to ride against him, that much’s for sure,” she said. “But I’d need news from home to know if they’re getting ready as well.” 

Sansa thought about this for a long while, and then went to talk to Alyssa.

Her friend listened to her, a small frown on her face, and then said: “If the King called for war, would we know?”

Sansa contemplated that. She didn’t actually know, and that was disturbing. She didn’t know how wars were called. It seemed like an important flaw in her education. The books always said that the king ‘called his banners’, but how he did so remained unclear. “I always thought there would be riders,” she said vaguely.

“Ravens are faster,” her friend pointed out.

Sansa mused that perhaps the king would send both, to make sure the message arrived. She felt very unsure, not knowing what was happening, and finally decided she needed to speak to her aunt. She needed to understand.

Aunt Barbrey was in her solar, reading a raven message, but raised her head and smiled a little upon Sansa’s arrival. “Hello, Sansa,” she said. “Do you need something?”

Sansa nodded, and settled herself on the chair in front of her aunt’s desk. “I’d like to know what is happening,” she said. “You promised you’d help me to get ready for King’s Landing, and you are teaching me some things, but I think...well, I know maybe this isn’t exactly the kind of thing I’d be doing in the capital, but I just thought...I thought I should know what was going on.”

Her aunt sighed. “You’re right,” she said, “you should, but the problem is, no one is very sure what is going on.”

Her aunt rose from her chair and walked around the desk to lean on it and be closer to Sansa. “Your father wrote, and he thinks someone is trying to kill the king.” Sansa gasped. “Hopefully, he will manage to prevent it, but if the culprit is some important lord, there might be a war. Or if the king is killed, well, then there will almost certainly be a war. But we don’t know when it would be, or against whom, exactly. So for now, we’re just getting ready, counting how many men we have, trying to figure out who we’d take south and who we’d keep here to protect the lands.” She sighed. “It’s a bad time for a war – the summer is ending, and winter is coming. We need to keep people here to protect the lands, to gather the last harvest. But at the same time...well, it wouldn’t be too bad to bring people south during winter. If we could eat of southern foodstores, it would lessen the pressure on ours. So we are trying to plan around these things, too.”

Sansa listened with her eyes wide. She’d never been educated in such matters, but what her aunt said made sense at least. “The king doesn’t know anything?” She asked after a moment.

“Not to my knowledge,” her aunt replied. “You have to remember, this killer is dangerous. Your father has to be careful, or he could end up killed himself.”

Sansa grew even more alarmed at that, though it made sense too. “Can...can we help him somehow?” She wondered.

“Sadly, we don’t have any connections in King’s Landing,” Aunt Barbrey said with a sigh. “We don’t truly know anyone there except your parents and the king.”

It struck Sansa as a disadvantage for the first time. She’d always been told that they were northern and should stick to the North, that North was their priority, and while she saw the sense in that, she’d also witnessed how strongly the south could suddenly intrude on that. It would be safer, she couldn’t help thinking, if they had someone in the south at least, to protect their interests.

“What about Lord Tyrion?” She suggested. “He went back south, didn’t he?”

Aunt Barbrey contemplated that. “He won’t be back in the capital yet,” she said, “but yes, it is an idea. I might write to your father and tell him to trust him. He might not listen, though – he doesn’t like Lannisters.”

Sansa frowned. If Father was going to dislike his only possible ally, how was he supposed to win against all those vipers her aunt was always saying lived in King’s Landing?

“Is there anything we can say to convince him?”

Aunt Barbrey shook her head, then shrugged. “I have tried for years, and he’s certainly more likely to trust Lord Tyrion than any other Lannister, but...I don’t think so. There are...other reasons, reasons that it would be too dangerous for me to tell you, that your father has to mistrust Lannisters at this point in particular. Let me simply say that we have a reason to suspect one of them, at least, did something very bad indeed, and before we know which one, it is dangerous to trust any of them.”

Sansa sighed. Truly, the idea of going south, where she would have to think like this all the time, was intimidating. “Thank you for telling me, Aunt,” she said at length, turning to leave.

What she needed now, she thought, was to go and find Lady and then go to the godswood for some calm – and prayer.

Someone was already there, though, and to Sansa’s surprise it wasn’t one of her siblings, but Wynafryd Manderly.

“Lady Wynafryd?” Sansa said uncertainly. “I- I thought your family worshipped the Seven.”

“We do, my lady,” Wynafryd returned, “but Ysilla spends most of her time in the little makeshift sept you set aside for us-”

“Is she so religious?” Sansa asked in some surprise. Was it he southern gods who made people into such unpleasant shrews, like Lady Catelyn and Ysilla?

“No,” Wynafryd said with a smile, “but it is the only room which no Northerner except me or Wylla is guaranteed to enter, and she has decided she was rather done with all of us.”

It was no wonder, for after she tried to get Jon and Ryella into trouble, no one was willing to say as much as one kind word to her. Even Myranda, who’d kept the relationship friendly the longest, seemed to be done there. Still. “I would think,” Sansa muttered, “that her presence in the room would be enough to make anyone wish not to enter.”

Lady Wynafryd burst out laughing. “You have a point, my lady,” she conceded then. “But I suppose Ysilla prefers to be safe than sorry. Anyway, I like the godswood.”

“You do?” Sansa asked in pleasant surprise.

“It’s certainly different to a sept,” she conceded, “but it doesn’t mean it’s any worse. It was always Wylla, not me, who loved exploring the old godswood in White Harbour, but I have fetched her from there often enough to be familiar with the atmosphere. And when there is no wild sister around to chase, it is very calming.”

“It is – but then I imagine a sept must be too?” She had been inside the one in White Harbour once, during a visit, and it had seemed beautiful, though also very foreign.

“When it is empty,” Wynafryd said with a laugh. “But ours rarely is.”

“The same can be said for the godswood, I think,” Sansa replied with a smile. “My only luck is that Bran and Jon are sparring now – one or the other of them can be found here almost all the time.”

“Or Lady Ryella?” Wynafryd said with a knowing smile, and Sansa blushed a little. Yes, everyone knew about Jon’s love, and how doomed it was. Sansa couldn’t help thinking it was very romantic, for all that she knew Aunt Barbrey would tell her she was being foolish. There is nothing beautiful, she had once told her when Sansa was enthusing about some tale of tragic love, about pain.

Sansa looked around herself, at the familiar place, and then gave a fleeting look to Wynafryd before wondering: “Could you speak to Alyssa about it?”

“About…?”

“Not about Jon!” Sansa exclaimed, horrified. They’d talked about that between themselves enough, anyway, and Sansa had also talked it over with Jon, though he’d been reluctant to say anything much. “About the godswood, I meant. I tried to bring her here with me a few times, but she just...” Sansa sighed in frustration. “She won’t come, she says it’s no place for her, and I’d so much like to show her!”

Wynafryd sighed, and settled on a rock, gesturing for Sansa to come join her. The scratched Lady behind the ears, entirely fearless, and said: “It’s different for the Vale ladies. The Faith is...very important for them.”

“My gods are important to me, too, and I still didn’t refuse to go and see the sept in White Habour,” Sansa said stubbornly.

Wynafryd was silent for a moment, then said: “When we were all still on speaking terms with Ysilla, on our journey up the White Knife, she told us that her father made her give a solemn promise not to stray for the beliefs and customs of the Vale while she was here. ‘The Starks are honourable and the lord is a good man,’ he had reportedly told her, ‘and we take pride in our shared ancestry, but we are not the same.’ Then he reminded her how her distant relation, Lorra Royce, went to marry Starks, and she had to give up her gods to do it. He said, Ysilla told us, that her task had been to become a Stark, but Ysilla’s was different: to educate you in being southern. He warned her not to give your shared First Men heritage precedence over that. If you were to be queen one day, he’d told Ysilla, you had to be prepared. ‘You can be a good model for her, Ysilla,’ he’d told his daughter, ‘I know you can.’”

Sansa fought a grimace. The only think that would make the idea of marrying Joffrey worse would be becoming like Ysilla in the process. She didn’t want to as much as think of that, and besides, she had wolf dreams at least once a week now. She would never become southern, that was proof enough of that. “But what does that have to do with Alyssa?” She asked instead.

“Lady Alyssa, as you know, is not as...free with her opinions, or the information she shares about herself. So I do not know what her lady mother told her when she departed for the North, but I imagine it might have been something similar. She might fear, by stepping here, she would be betraying her mother, or disobeying her in some way.”

Sansa thought about that. “But she would just be coming in to see,” she protested.

“I know, Sansa. I will try to speak to her, all right? Just...stay here and pray.”

Sansa sent her a grateful smile, then went to her knees before the heart tree.

As always, she prayed to be spared a marriage to Joffrey, but she also prayed for her father’s safety, and that there would be no war, and that the king’s life would be preserved, and that Lord Tyrion would help, and any other thing that came to her mind.

When she rose, Alyssa was on the edges of the clearing, looking uncertain as she petted Lady.

Sansa gave her a bright smile, and almost ran towards her. “Alyssa!” She exclaimed. “You came.”

Alyssa nodded, and her eyes darted around the clearing before landing on the weirwood tree. Sansa waited in trepidation as her friend opened her mouth and closed it a few times, but in the end she looked at Sansa and said simply: “It is...beautiful.”


	22. Eddard II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned argues with the king, and goes to investigate.

The moment Ned realized Robert was serious in his order to have the pregnant Daenerys Targaryen killed, he froze.

He thought of Jon, immediately, of his young as good as son, as old as Daenerys was, and he imagined him with his throat slit open by one of Robert’s assassins.

Daenerys was Jon’s aunt. He couldn’t – couldn’t – let this happen.

But at the same time...he still remembered the reason why he hadn’t refused Robert’s offer of being the Hand in the first place, of how he needed to keep good relations with the king to protest his own family, too. 

“Robert, please,” he said, a little desperate, “please don’t do this.”

Robert snorted. “You’ve grown soft in your old age, Ned,” he said.

Ned couldn’t but bristle at that. “I have been no more tolerant of the murder of children when you took the throne, Your Grace.”

“Dragonspawn is dragonspawn, no matter the age,” Robert replied, waving his hand, and Ned felt faint all of a sudden, with horror and disgust and he knew not what else.

He wished to say something very harsh, but then he caught Lord Baelish’s eyes, and the message clear as day in them: control yourself, or you will put yourself in danger. 

Ned didn’t trust Baelish and didn’t care about himself, but Jon’ safety was always on his mind, and the man, for all he was a snake, just might be right in this, and so Ned took a deep breath, and bit down on any harsh words.

“As you say, Your Grace,” he said instead, and rose from his chair. “If you will excuse me, a sudden illness has come over me. I feel I cannot remain, but I am certain this council will continue without me.”

Robert glowered at him, but waved him away, and Ned walked out of the room and back to the Tower of the Hand as if in a dream. What, he wondered, could he do? He didn’t know the first thing about Essos, how could he find a way to warn the girl? And worse yet, how could he find a way to warn her that Robert wouldn’t find out about?

He had meant to travel to Dragonstone soon, now that the Hand’s Tourney was finally over and he was settled in the capital a little. He had meant to consult Stannis on Lord Arryn’s murder and see how Theon Greyjoy was doing. But he as not sure Stannis would be of any help here. Certainly he would not support anything that went directly against Robert’s orders. No, Ned would have to stay in the capital for now and deal with the matter himself.

He felt desperate, lost and powerless, and sat in his rooms staring at the wall, thinking about all the things that led them here, about the Rebellion and Lyanna. Should he have stayed south? If he had, would he have been enough to keep Robert...sane? But he was willing to condone murder of children before he even became king, and if not even Jon Arryn managed to prevent what happened to Robert, what could Ned have done? No, more likely he would have been twisted and destroyed by this nest of vipers, too, just like his closest friend.

Not that he didn’t feel twisted and destroyed by his life in the North, too, haunted by grief and bitterness as it had been. But still, he had to believe he had not become what Robert had. After all, he only had one viper to watch out for in his own home, not a whole court of them.

He scowled at the wall. Yes, and here it was, his bitterness on full display. If fifteen years ago he was told of a man calling his wife a viper, he would have declared the man had no honour without hesitation. But what else do you call a woman that tries to turn siblings against each other? What other word was there for it? It was truly one of the most twisted things he could imagine a woman, a mother, ever doing.

He thought back to that day eight years ago when he’d discovered how far his southern wife was willing to go, when his innocent children told him how their mother often spoke of Jon to them, how she reminded them that the was ‘only a bastard’, how she repeated that they had all the rights and he had none. How when he’d confronted his wife, he’d defiantly told him, in her coldest tone, that everything she had said had only been the truth, and that he could not fault her for being true with her children. It was then that he had known all his hopes of saving his marriage had been in vain, and that he would never be able to trust Lady Stark with the children alone again.

She had shaken, and cried, when he told her of the changes he would make, but she had still not apologized, she had never apologized for what she did and said, and he had known then that there was truly no choice but to go through with it.

It worked out for the best in the end, with Barbrey by his side, an excellent advisor who knew the North and a perfect mother for the children – all the children, including Jon – but on that day, eight years ago, he had truly felt that any last chance at at least a semblance of happiness was over.

To this day, he could not understand how a woman, a mother, could be as cold as his wife. But then again, he knew now what the queen was like, and he’d read what Barbrey wrote about Yohn Royce’s daughter. There seemed to be hatred in many women’s hearts. He could not help but wonder if, in Ysilla Royce’s case, there was a cold mother, too, who led her daughter in that direction, a mother not of a First Man house, perhaps, who disliked the North and filled her daughter’s head with prejudice. It was further proof that he did well in keeping Lady Stark away from the children – they might have all grown up to be like Ysilla if he had not. Cold, and hateful.

He thought of Robert’s lack of care for the lives of children again. At least, he supposed, he had never had any reason to fear his wife physically harming Jon, but then she was a woman. Such things came less natural to them, whatever Barbrey might say, and in truth, sometimes a harsh word could hurt as much, if not more, than a blow.

But no. Whatever his grievances with Lady Stark, he still could not quite compare her to the monster his friend had become, a monster Ned did not know how to save everyone from.

At this point, his thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of Lord Baelish.

“What do you want?” He asked harshly. He had no patience for one of the men who’d supported the notion of killing a pregnant girl.

“First, to tell you that I convinced the King, for financial reasons, you understand, to simply let it be known he was offering a lordship for Daenerys’ death instead of sending a trained assassin. Hopefully, whoever makes the first attempt will botch it, and then the Dothraki will be on their guard.”

Ned looked at him with incredulity. “You spoke about her murder casually enough in the council room, and now you wish me to believe you want to protect her?”

“Not all of us have the security of the king’s friendship to fall back on,” Lord Baelish pointed out. “Not all of us would survive what you did today with their freedom intact.”

Ned frowned. Was that true? Would Robert imprison another man for telling him an unpleasant truth? Ser Barristan had been honest with him in the council, but in a careful way, and Robert certainly liked the old knight more than he liked Lord Baelish, that was for sure. In fact, Ser Barristan just might be the only man on the whole council Robert respected at all.

Not that it helped any.

Before Ned could provide some kind of response to Baelish, the man continued: “But no matter, that is not the main reason I came. I have information for you.”

Ned, whose mind was entirely on the Daenerys problem, wondered if he knew something about the situation in Essos. “What kind of information?”

“I hear you’ve been looking for a brothel.” Littlefinger gave a thin smile. “Well, thankfully, I can help you with that.”

Ned supposed he should have gone to the man directly, now that he thought about it. He knew Littlefinger himself owned several brothels. But he’d simply been following the advice given by Baelish himself: trust no one.

He wondered who it was Lord Baelish had heard from, about Ned having men looking for the brothel he had been told Jon and Stannis had visited. Likely, though, there was nothing very sinister, and his men had simply stopped at one of Littlefinger’s establishments to ask around about that visit by Jon Arryn, and the word had gotten back to the owner. Nothing unusual in that.

He also wondered about what led Baelish to give him this information now, but if it was something nefarious, asking would do little good, so he simply said: “I would be very grateful. My men have been getting nowhere.”

“But no doubt they appreciated the assignment all the same,” Baelish said with a grin. “The place you are looking for is Chataya’s, in the Street of Silk like all the others, but one of the more upscale establishments. Perhaps that is why your men have not come across it yet. It is rather pricey.”

“Thank you,” Ned said, repeating the name in his mind. Then, because he was still suspicious, he asked: “Will you accompany me?”

“Oh no,” Littlefinger said, sounding amused. “They don’t like to see competition there. Besides, remember that whatever the investigation, it is possible it got Jon Arryn killed. I would much rather stay as far away from it as possible.”

Ned simply nodded. It was a good point, after all, and even if it was not the true reason, it was at least a plausible one.

Littlefinger left, and Ned set out, thinking about his words. Jon Arryn had died as a result of his strange trips, more likely than not, and while his was hardly the kind of death where an increased guard would help against it, still Ned took more men that he usually would from his guard as he left the Red Keep.

He also thought about Littlefinger’s possible motivation for giving him the information. It could be entirely honest, of course. Or it could be that he simply wished to make a fool of him by sending him to a brothel. Ned would survive that. Or he could mean to get him out of the Red Keep for some reason, and that was an alarming possibility, but – well, what could he do? He instructed his men to have their eyes open for anything suspicious and to send a messenger for him if anything happened at all, but otherwise…

He could remain and only go to the brothel later, of course, but if the information was genuine, he did not think he could afford that. Who knew how many others Baliesh told, or how many knew independently, and he might be running out of time.

So he rode through the streets and contemplated, once again, the question of why Jon Arryn would be visiting a brothel, with Stannis Baratheon of all people. Did he suppose one of the whores knew something important? It was true – or at least Ned had heard it said it was true – that men often told their mistresses things in the post-coital bliss, but surely no one important would be foolish enough to tell something like this to a whore?

Then he thought of Robert. Loath as he was to admit it, Robert was entirely capable of something like that. But Robert was not the kind of man to keep secrets – if he told one whore, he likely told a dozen other people, and could still tell more. Why would anyone be bothered about finding te whore?

Suddenly, he froze in his saddle as an idea entered his mind: what if the person in question was Robert himself? What if there was some secret he was keeping from Jon and his brother, but told his whores, and Jon had found out…

But that was when the possibilities ended, because Robert would not kill Jon. He would not. The memory of today’s council was intruding on Ned’s mind, reminding him of all the things his friend was capable of now, but he still could not think that. Jon had been like a father to Robert, to both of them. And even if Robert became angry with him, he would never choose poison. The mere thought was foolish.

Thankfully he was in the Street of Silk now, and could focus back on the task at hand as he read the painted shields of the various houses of pleasure until he found Chataya’s. He felt awkward as he entered, as he always did in such places, and suddenly he was thrown back into the days of his youth, when he used to fish Robert out of them in Gulltown whenever they visited.

He took a deep breath, overcame his awkwardness, and went to talk to the matron. Leaving his men downstairs, he was showed to the girl Jon Arryn had visited in short order, a freckled young thing with a sweet smile and a babe at her breast. 

And once he saw the babe, it was of course obvious why Jon Arryn had gone here.

The child was the very image of Robert, even as a newborn, and Ned couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling, remembering little Mya Stone in the Vale, and Robert’s affection. He spoke to the mother about Robert as he watched the babe, tried to be as soothing as he could, and just as he was about to leave, several big, burly men entered the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ned asked, standing up and reaching for his sword.

Instead of an answer, one of the men took a long step towards him and before he had time to draw, punched him in the stomach so hard that he bent over. Then his legs were kicked from under him and he fell to the ground, and he was kicked to the side several times. He just hd the time to notice that one of the men was carrying a large club with nails in it, a fierce looking weapon, and then he saw it swing, there was a hit to the side of his head, and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise?


	23. Tyrion IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion arrives to King's Landing.

Tyrion gazed at the approaching city with a set of rather mixed feelings.

On one hand, a long-missed comfort awaited him there: warmth, a proper bed, whores whenever he wanted them, the best wine...all things he would have considered quite essential to his happiness before the journey north.

And yet the journey had been...invigorating.

New people to meet, new sights to see, and most importantly, entirely new wonders to contemplate made him feel like a new man in many ways, and he wasn’t so certain he wished to shed that new man in favour of the comforts the city provided.

But what choice was there?

He couldn’t remain a guest of the Starks indefinitely, and there were no other wargs he knew of that he could study. 

He thought of his promise to them, to look in books for some writing that would shed light on the children’s experience. He could do that, he supposed, and hope it allowed him to retain some kind of connection to that wonder. He could look through the Red Keep library, and when he exhausted it, he could travel to Oldtown. If there was a chance of finding a mention anywhere, it was there, and he would very much like to return there.

He would need to come up with a suitable excuse for his father, of course, but perhaps if he suggested to Cersei that he would leave for an extended amount of time, she would gladly provide his excuse herself. He didn’t think there was much his sister wouldn’t do to be rid of his company. He supposed he should be glad she’d refrained from outright murder so far.

Yes, Tyrion decided, this was a good plan, and having formed it, he was able to watch the approaching city with more equanimity.

That equanimity disappeared the moment they docked, as before Tyrion even stepped ashore, he learned the big news: the Red Keep – nay, the entire city – was in a state of shock, because a second Hand of the King was dead within one year, and this time, no one could doubt it was murder. Lord Stark had been beaten to death by some brutes while visiting a brothel.

Tyrion found that part the hardest to believe: perhaps the only person less likely to visit a brothel than Eddard Stark was Stannis Baratheon.

He couldn’t help but think of the Stark children he’d left not such a long time ago. They did not deserve to have their father die while so young – especially not the youngest one, a boy of only eight – and even more, they did not deserve to hear of such a way of death. The people at the docks were japing about the famous Stark honour now, and that it clearly wasn’t all it was meant to be, and the captain of the ship had to break up a fight as his northmen immediately tried to pummel the workers for their disrespect.

He looked like he wasn’t far from pounding them himself, though, as he threatened them away from the ship.

“I have to find out as many details as I can,” he muttered to his first mate. “The raven would have been sent north already and will have arrived before us, but I need to bring back as much information as I can.”

Tyrion silently wished him luck as he took his leave from the ship, heading towards the Red Keep with just his two men, his northern guard finally having finished its duty. He didn’t think there would be much to find for a ship captain who only had a day or two to look.

On his way uphill, Tyrion contemplated the situation. He didn’t think that two Hands dead so soon after each other could be considered a coincidence, and yet someone took very great care to make it look like one. Their way of death couldn’t have been more different.

It seemed that, whoever it was, they didn't mind it known Stark’s death was murder as long as the death of Jon Arryn was never considered such.

If so, though, they were already too late, because there wouldn’t a plotter in the Red Keep that didn’t put two and two together, even if they hadn’t after Jon Arryn died, which were few enough of them in any case. So why not go for poison again? Was the killer stupid, did they not realize this? Or was it that getting to Stark to poison him would have been too difficult? Both answers were possible, he supposed, and hard to decide on which was the right one without any more information about the culprit.

Once he reached the Keep, Tyrion didn’t even bother with going to his rooms, and headed directly for the White Sword Tower. If he was lucky, Jaime would be there, and he would get his fresh information without the dose of animosity that always accompanied any conversation with Cersei.

He was lucky. Jaime was in his room, lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, and seemed even distinctly pleased to see Tyrion. “Brother!” He called, shifting into a sitting position.

“Hello, Jaime,” Tyrion said, and in spite of his misgivings about coming back, he was definitely glad to see his brother again. “Don’t get up on my account, just move over so that I can sit as well.”

Jaime obligingly did, then took a closer look at him. “Did you come here directly from your ship?” He wondered.

“I did,” Tyrion confirmed. “I heard the news, and wanted to know how the situation stood.”

“The news? Oh, you mean Stark!” Jaime rolled his eyes. “It’s a madhouse out there, which is why I’m keeping to my rooms. Robert is going insane.”

“Insane?” That was never good news when it concerned a king.

“He is furious, and went to the city himself to find the killers, wanting to beat them to a pulp.”

Tyrion stared. “The king…?”

Jaime snorted. “Yes, and of course Kingsguard had to go with him, so you can imagine how very efficient they were in finding anyone at all.”

Robert was even more of an idiot that Tyrion had thought. “So I suppose they have nothing?”

“They caught one of them, somehow,” Jaime replied. “But he died before questioning could start.”

This was getting more and more farcial. “He what?”

Jaime chuckled. “A weak heart, Pycelle had pronounced it.” He shook his head. “I’ve caught a glimpse of the brute and if someone did not look like they had a weak heart, it was him. They found another one stabbed in an alleyway before Robert could get to him. The third one is still undiscovered, so Robert keeps roaming the city, but he won’t find shit, of course.”

Most likely because the man was already dead. Could Pycelle be behind it? It seemed absurd, and yet...weak heart? Truly?

No, someone very much did not want these men to talk.

It was, technically, none of his business. Lord Stark had been no friend of his. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking of his children, of the youngest son being so proud of his newfound abilities and excited to share them with his father once he came back home…

Winterfell would be a much grimmer place from now on.

“Why so despondent looking?” Jaime asked him curiously. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss the man.”

“No,” Tyrion said quite honestly. “Personally I don’t give a fuck that he died, but...”

“But?” Jaime raised his eyebrows at him.

“But I did like some of his children,” Tyrion confessed. “Especially the youngest boy and the bastard.”

“Of course you would pick the bastard,” Jaime said, shaking his head. 

“Well, he has a good deal more sense that his trueborn brother the heir,” Tyrion said drily.

“From what I heard about how the heir argued with Joffrey, that is not too difficult.”

Tyrion personally thought that arguing with Joffrey showed every sign of good sense, but he knew what Jaime meant. A more prudent man would have tried to keep his opinions to himself when it concerned the future king. It just so happened that Tyrion was not prudent in this manner either. If Joffrey’s parents – real or believed – would not bother to raise the brat, someone should. “He wouldn’t have to if you did,” Tyrion couldn’t help saying.

Jaime gave him a look. “You know what Cersei would say if I tried anything like that.”

“Yes, and you had ever been under our sweet sister’s heel.”

Jaime laughed. “There’s no shame in knowing which of us has the brains.”

Tyrion only snorted at that. Cersei certainly thought she was very smart, but in reality Tyrion was not sure Jaime wasn’t the cleverer of the two, at least in that he had no overinflated sense of his own worth. Oh, he was too arrogant for words, but only where it was deserved. Looks, his skill with a sword – well, it was hard to find his equal, so Tyrion did not see how anyone could blame him for having a good opinion of himself, really. It wasn’t like Tyrion went around being all modest about his own intelligence either.

“The boy is going to be king one day,” he said instead of commenting on Cersei, as he knew it would lead to nothing productive. “Are you ready for what that means?”

“There’s still time for that,”Jaime said carelessly. “Robert is, what, forty? Less, even. We should have ten or more years of his reign ahead of us, gods preserve us from that. By the time he dies, Joffrey will be ready to be no worse a king than his...predecessor.”

Tyrion mentally took back every good thing he’d said about Jaime’s intelligence. Robert was a terrible king, of course, but Joffrey, in all likelihood, would be another Aerys. And without the Targaryen name, it would likely take even less for people to rise in rebellion against him.

Tyrion looked at his brother, and wondered what he would do if he had to serve another mad king, but this time his own son. Jaime did not like speaking of his time by Aerys’ side, but from the little he’d said, and the curious kind of dead his eyes always went when he spoke about it, Tyrion knew perfectly well Jaime had hated every moment of it, and that that, more than any political astuteness, led to his killing the previous king. Would he one day kill his own son, Tyrion asked himself morbidly, or would that be too much for him? It was not like he had any love for the boy, but still, he supposed making such a call would be hard for any man. 

“Let us hope you are right,” he said simply, “and there are not some more brutes waiting in the city to do away with our king as well.”

Jaime snorted. “He has three Kingsguard with him, as well as a number of Baratheon knights. They’d have to be rather impressive brutes.”

Tyrion briefly considered that possibility – was it an attempt at a coup, a revolt or the start of a rebellion? It was possible, he supposed, and only time would tell. He hated not knowing, but at this point, there was truly nothing to do but wait, so Tyrion turned to his brother and said: “Have dinner with me?”

“Gladly,” Jaime replied with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did not mean to make the previous chapter a cliffhanger! But it's hard to make it explicit someone is dead from their POV. I even added the spiked club to mere fists to hint towards it more strongly, but I absolutely get why most of you still thought Ned would survive it - fics are entirely unpredictable when it comes to what wounds are fatal. But let me assure you, those gentlemen were in the brothel with a very clear purpose.


	24. Catelyn III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn reacts to the news.

Lord Stark’s death filled Catelyn with a curious sense of unreality.

She had no idea what she felt, or what she even should feel, beyond the grief everyone expected of her as a recently widowed woman. She was mostly numb, and, she suspected, in a state of shock.

She had never prayed for her husband’s death, knowing that her situation in Winterfell would only grow worse with his passing, since she would no longer even nominally be its lady, and she was uncertain her father would accept her back into Riverrun even as a widow. But now she wasn’t in Winterfell, she was in King’s Landing, and...she didn’t know what to feel, or think.

Most jarring of all was watching the king’s rage and grief. It was as if she was looking into a mirror of what should have been, watching someone who had truly loved Lord Stark react to his death. She did not doubt that her children and Lady Dustin in Winterfell were reacting much the same. Yet she felt nothing.

Petyr had come to tell her the news, making sure they were alone for it so that no one could witness her lack of grief. He’d been finding time for her every day since, even more time than before, and asked her how she was doing, understanding, perhaps, what mixed feelings she would have.

She felt both shamed and vindicated by the place where Lord Stark was killed. In spite of his bastard, most somehow still thought of Lord Stark as being honorable. She was glad his true face had finally been shown to the world.

A lavish funeral was being organized by the king, or rather, it seemed, by Petyr and Lord Renly, who’d been given the reins, only told the king’s general idea. He seemed to think Cat herself, as a distraught widow, should not be bothered with it. Petyr came to discreetly ask her what she wanted, and she was grateful for that, too.

She had had a dress quickly dyed black, to be fit for the funeral, and wondered how long she would be expected to wear that. Not that it mattered too much.

She also wondered what she was supposed to do now. Petyr assured her she and her household could stay in the Tower of the Hand, that there was no rush for them to move out, that Robert had still not even decided whom to name the new Hand, for all that he’d named his brother Renly a temporary one.

But that, she knew, was only for now. Soon enough, she would have to decide on her future. Was she to return to Winterfell? 

The moment the possibility entered her head, she thought, with the first certainly she’d felt since Lord Stark’s death: no.

No, she was not going back to that miserable place, to her children who detested her, to the cold and unpleasant castle with the people who never respected her the way they should have. She had not wanted to go back even before, and now, without the protection of being the titular Lady Stark...no.

She would not, she decided, whatever was asked of her she would not go back there. She would see whether her father would receive her in Riverrun. If not...well, she would find something else. Her eldest son would not want her to go begging, she was sure of that much at least. He, of all the children, loved her enough for that. But she doubted he wanted her in Winterfell either, if not because of himself then because of all those others he still seemed to prefer to her, the Dustin woman and his siblings and the bastard, who all hated her. He would arrange for some way for her to have a respectable living without having to return to the North.

She wondered whether he knew already. The raven had been dispatched before she even learned of the news, but it took the animals days to fly all the way north, and it had only been five since Lord Stark’s death. Perhaps they were only learning of it now. It seemed appropriate, in a way: today was to be Lord Stark’s farewell in the sept.

Catelyn herself was dreading it. Bad enough that, for the past five days, he had been lying there and she had to go and pray by his side, as was expected of a widow. She had never once in her life not known what to do in a sept, but during these vigils, she had simply knelt in silence, or managed only a weak prayer to the Crone for wisdom.

Now, there would be blessings and prayers for his peaceful rest in heaven, a prayer for Mother's mercy to sway Father’s judgment so that he was not too strict with her husband’s soul. She couldn’t help but think that all the northerners would be repulsed at the knowledge their liege lord was subjected to such a ceremony of the Faith, that he needed a southern god to pray for mercy over his soul, and felt a flare of savage pleasure at that. She was not vengeful enough to wish for him to burn in the seven hells. No, in fact the idea of him sitting in Father’s heaven – she could not imagine him in any other – being all discomfited that it was not as northern as he had imagined gave her much pleasure.

She had been forced to live her life in the North without her gods, but it had only been fifteen years. He would be forced to live without his for eternity.

There would even be a sort of burial, she knew, though only a temporary one – they needed a place to store the bones until Robb sent directions for what to do with them, and the king meant to make a ceremony of that, too. Lord Stark, she was certain, would hate that.

She dressed carefully in mourning clothes, then set out with a Stark guard towards the Great Sept of Baelor, riding in a closed carriage, at least. It was appropriate for a funeral, of course, but it also made her life easier, in that she did not need to pretend at deep grief for as long as the journey, in the slow, mournful procession, would take. She was grateful, too, that women only took a small part in funerals, before they were expected to leave, with the assumption that their heavy weeping would disturb the proceedings. That, too, would come in useful.

She descended from the carriage before the steps of the Great Sept, and the King was there, waiting for her and offering his arm.

“Cat,” he said heavily, like they were close friends who shared this grief. He had thankfully mostly left her alone until now, but now he seemed to wish to commiserate with her and offer his condolences, and so she schooled her expression into something appropriate – it was enough to think of her uncertain future to make her feel truly distraught, so it was not too difficult – and took his arm.

The sept was decorated with black satin and white flowers everywhere, and the whole court seemed to have gathered to say goodbye to their Hand. Catelyn wondered whether they wore the same clothes they had worn for Jon Arryn’s funeral. All this pomp should certainly be well familiar by now. Petyr had confessed to her they had used much of the plans that had been made for Jon Arryn’s final farewell, only changing them just enough it wasn’t too obvious.

The septon began to speak, and Catelyn did her best to listen in proper reverence, but it was difficult. The septon spoke of a father and husband who passed, leaving children and wife behind, and how he should be mourned as such, and she thought about how the septon knew nothing about Lord Stark at all, nothing about all the vows he broke, about how he had been more of a husband to his dead brother’s whore than-

She stopped herself. She was in a sept, and such thoughts were beneath her.

She focused on the colorful glass until the septon was done speaking about Lord Stark and began to circle around the seven altars, praying to each of the gods. She could do that, at least, she could offer him her prayers. She never wished for him to suffer after death as well. She just wished for him to sit in front of Father’s judgment and be told that he had been wrong, wrong in everything, beginning with his faith and ending with his treatment of her and his bastard.

So she prayed with the others for Mother’s mercy, and for Father’s justice, and for Smith’s strength and Crone’s wisdom for those left behind, and for Warrior to protect her sons and Maiden to protect her daughter. And last, they prayed to the Stranger, to take Lord Stark’s soul and carry it safely to heaven, and for that Catelyn prayed the most fervently. Take him to heaven, she prayed, not wherever he thought he would go.

There was the usual silence that followed a prayer to the Stranger, instead of the hymns that were sung to all others, and then the septon said a few final words and it was over.

Catelyn had to fight with herself not to give a sigh of relief.

The king was waiting for her again, his eyes glistening with tears, and she took his arm while pretending to be too overwhelmed by grief to speak until she was handed into her carriage, where she leaned heavily onto the backrest as it started to move.

So. This was done, then.

She stared blindly out of the window as they rode up Aegon’s Hill, thinking of nothing at all, until she was handed out by one of the Stark guards and told that Petyr was already waiting for her in her solar.

That woke her up, and she went to see him immediately, worried that he had some bad news to share.

When she entered and saw his face, however, she realized he only came to comfort her.

“Cat,” he said, extending his arms, and she folded into them, allowing herself that little bit of comfort for a moment. She knew that tongues would wag if someone walked in, but surely, on this day, after this experience, she deserved to take something for herself, at least?

“How are you?” He asked her softly after a moment.

She sighed and let go of him, except for his hands, which she kept hold of.

“Tired,” she said. “Exhausted, even.”

“Should I leave you, then?”

She shook her head. “Stay with me for a while,” she asked. “Just...”

“Of course,” he said, and she was almost pathetically grateful for his understanding.

She felt she should not be so thrown, not when she was not even grieving, but the truth was, a part of her life was over, and she had no idea what the next would entail, and it was terrifying.

“If there is anything I can do,” he began, “anything at all...”

She thought about it. “Could you- could you let Lady Chelsted know that I do not feel fit to receive visitors yet, please? And let her tell the other ladies, too.”

Catelyn liked the woman, but she did not have it in herself to pretend at grief in an intimate setting, and she knew her enough to realize she was too perceptive not to notice that among Catelyn’s many emotions, genuine sadness was missing.

“Of course,” Petyr said. “I shall have them leave you alone for as long as you wish. Do you need to have anything arranged for the household? You know that a word to the king would be enough to get you anything in the world right now...”

She knew, but she did not wish to think of that, of where that generosity came from. “No,” she said. “right now, your company is all I need.”

Petyr smiled at her in response.


	25. Barbrey VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news reaches Winterfell.

When she read the raven message, Barbrey almost collapsed.

Only the long, long years of receiving bad news when she had been young kept her on her feet, gripping the parchment so strongly it crumpled. 

“Call the children here,” she told Maester Luwin, almost choking on her words. “They must be told immediately.”

“Even Lord Bran, my lady?”

“Yes,” she snapped at him. “they are of the North, they will not be coddled. They must know.”

Even if the idea of telling them turned her stomach.

After he left the room, she sat down heavily in her chair, and put her head in her hands. _Oh, Ned._

She had known, from the moment the request had come she had known this would spell a tragedy for the family. The south had killed every Stark it touched during the war, and there’d been no reason to suppose it would be different now. And Ned was not – had not been – suited for the task at all, his straightforward nature and obsession with honour making him perhaps the least suited person she knew apart from Greatjon Umber – and, of course, apart from Brandon.

She choked back her sobs, at the thought of another Stark man she loved – though in a different way – dead in that nest of vipers. In spite of knowing all this, she had still hoped and prayed for Ned to survive and come home. She would have gone with him, to help him there, but she could not have left the children alone, and even less could she have left them with the Tully woman. Her place had been here, but if their places could have only been switched, if she could have gone south instead of him, she knew she would have done so in a heartbeat. Her own twisted mind was much better suited to the task, and had she died, it would have been less of a loss for the whole North.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and straightened in her chair. The children would be there soon, and she needed to be as calm as possible for them, to support them in their grief.

Jon, Robb and Bran arrived together, and it took just one look at her face for Robb to ask in alarm: “Aunt, what happened?”

She merely shook her head, and they waited in silence, with only Bran fretting, for Sansa to arrive. As soon as she was there, and the door was closed, Barbrey said without preamble: “Your father was killed in King’s Landing.”

She saw their faces pale, she saw Bran open his mouth, then close it again and begin to cry, she saw Sansa sway and Jon blink furiously, and she heard Robb ask: “What happened?”

She scoffed, as bitterly as she knew how. “The letter says he was attacked and killed in a brothel,” she said.

“Lies!” Robb immediately exploded.

She gave him a look. “Of course they’re lies,” she said. “Or at the very least, some elaborate setup. Someone wanted not only to kill your father, but to make a humiliation of it.”

“Shall I call the banners, then?” He asked, almost eager.

“Against whom?” She demanded bitterly.

“The Lannisters!” He snapped, irritated.

“And what proof do you have? He was killed by three brutes. There is nothing, apparently, tying anyone to the crime. If we call the banners now, all of the realm will unite against us.” She shook her head. “No, we will have to be smart about this. We will think about this in detail, and we will plan...but later. There is time for that.” She rose and went towards them from behind the desk, extended her arms, and as they came, gathered them all – Bran still crying – into an embrace, holding them tight. Bran’s tears intensified, but Sansa seemed to still be in shock, and Robb seemed to be funnelling his grief into anger. Jon was grim and silent, his eyes full of pain. 

She held them for a long time, her eyes tearing up again. She could see Sansa begin to cry, too, the shock passing, while Bran’s loud sobs slowly subsided into quieter ones. Robb’s rage spent itself a little as he was held in place, but she could still see it bubbling under the surface. Jon’s, which was always slower to awaken, was only now beginning to rise.

She let them go when she judged the moment best, and looked into all of their eyes. “Go rest now, for a time,” she said then, heavily. “We will talk more later, about our plans and what to do next. Now you have time to grieve, however you wish.”

They all nodded, and turned to leave, Sansa taking Bran around his shoulders, Robb and Jon clearly intending to go and discuss things together. But there was one thing she felt she should tell Robb as soon as possible, so that he could begin to get used to the idea, so she called after him: “Robb?” 

The boy looked at her, and under the rage she could see his despair and confusion.

“You’re the Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North now,” she told him. “The titles and responsibilities passed to you with your father’s death...And one of them in particular. You will have to marry soon.”

“How can you think of that now?” He exploded, Jon putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“We all must think of that,” she replied, doing her best to keep her temper. “Such is our lot in life. The bakers and the smiths can be allowed to grieve in peace, but we have responsibilities. Go now. We will talk more later.”

Gods knew she needed some time, too, for all that she could ill afford to give it.

The moment the doors closed after them she wept again, this time less for Ned and more for them, for these children who suddenly found themselves without any true parents in the world. Bran was so young for such a loss, and Robb was so young for such a responsibility. To become a Warden of the North at not yet sixteen...she worried, she had to admit. Stark bannermen, except for Roose, were exceptionally loyal, but still, a boy of fifteen who had the southern look to him? Who had no close ties to any major northern house? Robb needed to do whatever he could to solidify his position, and he needed marriage for more reasons than simply getting an heir.

She thought of what Ned would say to such thoughts, how he would assure her she was too paranoid, that their bannermen were loyal to Robb and that they could trust the men of the North. He had not had the hard education of having a sister married to Roose Bolton and fostering his son. Poor Domeric, dead by his bastard brother’s hand only a year past, with no justice to be found for him… But his father, odious as he was, had the most twisted, suspicious mind she had ever come across, and saw many plots in the North. Before her ties to the Starks became so close, before her sister died, he sometimes discussed his ideas with her, wanting the Dustin support. And often enough, he was right, which only made it worse. It was not that Ned had been wrong exactly – the people were loyal to the Starks – it was that he did not see how loyalty still allowed them to make all sorts of plans, and how quickly it could turn when something unexpected happened. 

Then Barbrey thought about how she would never argue this with him again, and tears sprung into her eyes once more.

She was almost angry with herself – she should, she thought, be done with shedding tears for Stark men and their deaths in King’s Landing. Tears never helped anything, and there was work to do.

She dried her eyes, stood up, and took a deep breath. She needed to speak to Vayon Poole, and to the Cassels. She needed to have Robb address the household, or at least stand by her side as she did it, if he was in no state to do it himself. There were things to be done, and she could not afford idleness.

She met with the older children again late that evening, after Bran had fallen into exhausted sleep. All of their eyes were red-rimmed, but dry for now. “I’m sorry, Aunt,” Robb began, “for what I said before. I know you were right, but surely there is no such hurry? Bran is my heir.”

“Bran is only one young boy. Sansa would inherit after him, true, but it is always harder for a ruling lady. I should know, and there had never been a ruling lady of Winterfell before, which would make it even harder, and doubly so if war is in our future. The North will be shaken with this death, and they will need security. There is more security in your children than in your brother inheriting.”

Robb gave a numb nod.

“I thought about that,” Sansa piped up, the first words she had spoken on this topic, “and...we have some noble ladies here already. Couldn’t Robb choose from them?”

Barbrey paused. It was actually not a half bad idea. “Yes,” she said slowly, “the Manderlys would not be a bad match.”

Robb seemed surprised. “I thought you’d suggest someone from the Vale,” he said.

She scoffed. “You want to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps, do you?”

He flushed. “I thought...if there is a war...”

“Yes, if. And we do not know who against. The Lannisters are only a suspicion, remember. It might be someone else entirely,” though she doubted it, for after Ned making such discoveries, who else would benefit from his death, and from Robert’s? Still, it paid to be cautious, and he might have discovered something new and been killed before he had time to write. “And we do not know how the alliances stand,” she finished. “We do not know whom we would need the most, if it came to war, and whom we should be wary of.” After all, it was entirely possible that Arryn had been killed by some rival from the Vale, and Ned had then been silenced on the brink of discovery. If that was true, a Vale marriage could prove deadly.

If Ysilla Royce was not so intolerable, she might have still considered it, for the Royces of Runestone at least were a strong house that had intermarried with the Starks before. But she would never have Robb marry her, Myranda was from an unimportant side branch, Alyssa was too young and not from a First Man family besides, and Ryella...Barbrey would never make Robb marry a woman who loved his brother. She would never hurt either of the boys this much.

“Then shouldn’t we wait?” Robb asked uncertainly.

“We do not have the luxury of that,” she reminded him, all the plots Roose had talked about now in her mind, and his own chief among them. “And first of all, you need to have your own bannermen secure. The North would not welcome another foreign lady of house Stark, especially not after how the previous one went. Many would take offence. We must be united now, and that unity is best ensured by a good match. And the Manderly girls are the best you can make, given that Alys Karstark is already betrothed.”

Robb gave a slow nod. “All right, then,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind marrying Wylla.”

Barbrey saw Sansa frown, and turned to her. “You have something to say to this, Sansa?” She asked.

“Only that...well, that you need to marry because you need children, and Wylla is only fourteen. I know...” she blushed a little. “I know it’s more dangerous to have children this early, for the mother and children both. I know that might be why Lady Bethany had so many dead babies. Wouldn’t Wynafryd be better?”

Barbrey gave her a small smile, trying not to let the tears fall again at the reminder of her sister. “Is that the only reason you think she’d be better?” She asked.

Sansa blushed some more. “Well...I think she’d be a better lady of Winterfell,” she admitted. “I know you like Wylla, Robb, but she is so wild. It wouldn’t matter if you were marrying her and Father was still alive and she had years to become the lady of the North, but,” she choked back a sob, “but he’s dead, and she will have all these responsibilities, and I really do think Wynafryd is more ready for that.”

“She’s right,” Barbrey said seriously, giving Robb an intent look. “Do you object to the girl in particular?”

Robb shook his head, then blushed as bright as his sister. “No, only...only she’s a bit intimidating,” he admitted.

Barbrey chuckled a little, surprised herself that she could on such a day. “I will speak to her, then,” she said, “ask if she’d be willing. If so, we will send a raven to White Harbour, do you agree?”

Robb only nodded.

“Well then,” she said, “that’s enough planning for now. We need some time to grieve. When I have news from White Harbor, I will let you know.”

Robb nodded again, and they all left her. She sagged in her chair, exhausted. This, she knew, was going to be difficult. But the children were Starks of Winterfell, and she had every faith they would come though in the end.


	26. Bran IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> White Harbor writes to Winterfell.

“Well, Bran,” Robb said with a smile that was thin and wobbly, as it always was these days, as all of their smiles were. “It seems I’ll be getting married.“

“Lord Manderly agreed?” Bran asked hopefully. It was strange to think of his brother being married – he wasn’t that much older than Bran – but Bran liked the idea of Wynafryd joining their family. He liked her – though not as much as he liked Wylla – and he liked the idea that after Father died, there would be someone else, someone new. Not that she could replace father, but it wouldn’t feel like they were losing family so much if there was a new Stark, too.

“Sort of...preliminarily agreed,” Robb explained. “He said that he was honoured and that he was sending his son here to negotiate the details of the betrothal. But Aunt Barbrey says she’s sure they won’t be too difficult.”

“And what does Wynafryd think?” Bran asked, curious.

Robb blushed. “I...haven’t really talked to her about it.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

Bran giggled a little. “Maybe,” he said, and Robb ruffled his hair. 

“I know where to go if I ever need romantic advice, then,” he said, and Bran smiled at him.

Then he thought of father, and felt guilty for smiling, and like he wanted to cry.

It had only been a week since they got the news about his death, and sometimes Bran still forgot. It made it all the more painful to remember.

He liked spending longer time as Summer now, because as Summer, he was never sad. Summer was always happy and excited, and Bran liked being him. But Aunt Barbrey and Jon and everyone was saying that he shouldn’t lose himself, as they said. Bran wasn’t certain what it meant, but didn’t want to worry them. Still, being in Summer made him feel better about everything.

Robb noticed his falling face, and sighed and gave him a hug. He didn’t say anything. What was there to say? No words would bring Father back.

“I will go talk to Wynafryd now,” he said when he let Bran go, “but after we’re done, we could spar for a bit?”

Bran looked at him. “Don’t you have work?” Robb was always working now, even more than before, when father had only been away.

“I do,” Robb said with a sigh, “but I can make time for you.”

“For a bit, then,” Bran agreed. He didn’t want to take too much of Robb’s time away from his important work, but he’d like to spar, he thought. Maybe he could tire himself enough enough that he could forget about Father.

For now, he headed to the godswood, where he tended to spend most of his days now. He’d been excused from his lessons for the time being, though Aunt Barbrey had warned him they’d start again soon. Bran knew they were important, and that if Robb was working he should do no less, but he didn’t think he would be able to focus much, with his mind running back to Father every other moment.

Summer joined Bran as he entered the godswood, but soon Ghost ran to welcome them, too, and that showed Bran well enough that they weren’t the only ones there. And sure enough, there was Jon and Lady Ryella, walking very close together under the trees.

Bran very slowly backed out, not wishing to disturb them, and instead went to find Wylla.

She was the most unpredictable of all the ladies, and Bran never quite knew where he’d discover her. This time, she was with the horses, and greeted him with a muted smile. She, too, had a special one since Lord Stark died. She had not known him, but she’d heard a lot about him, Bran knew, and she was sorry for their loss.

“Have you heard the news?” Bran asked without preamble, not wanting to think of Father, even though that made him feel guilty.

“What news?” Wylla asked with trepidation. Bran supposed that, given what happened, it was no wonder she expected it would be bad ones.

“Wynafryd and Robb will get married,” he said, and Wylla blinked and then burst into tears.

Bran was completely taken aback. “What...what’s wrong?” he asked uncertainly.

“Nothing!” Wylla said impatiently, wiping her eyes. “It’s just a stupid crush, anyway, and I’m being a child.”

It took Bran a moment to realize what she was saying. “You...you like Robb?” He asked,

She only sighed.

“I’m sure if you talk to Aunt Barbrey, they could change the betrothal,” Bran insisted. “It wouldn’t matter much which of you Robb married, would it, for the alliance?”

Wylla shook her head. “I talked it over with my sister and with Sansa,” she said, sniffing. “Robb needs to have babies, and I’m too young. I might not get pregnant, or I might die bearing them. And he doesn’t like me that way anyway, so what does it matter?”

“Robb likes you!” Bran argued immediately.

“Oh yes,” Wylla said, sounding angry, “he likes me like you like me, like a sister! But he admires ladies like Jeyne Poole and Alyssa Waynwood, all elegant and refined and fragile, not like me, who’d rather spar with him than sigh with admiration!”

Bran was completely lost now, and it must have shown on his face, because Wylla sighed and gave him a soft smile. “I’m sorry, Bran,” she said. “I shouldn’t burden you with my worries, especially now. Come, maybe we can get someone to keep watch over us for a ride!”

That did cheer Bran up. Even if he was still only allowed to ride his pony outside the walls of Winterfell, it was still fun, and he knew Summer would like the excursion.

Whom to ask, though? Robb was with Wynafryd and Jon with Ryella, and Aunt Barbrey would no doubt be busy...but then Bran had a brilliant idea? “Can we ask Randa?” He hadn’t spent any time with her in ages, and he liked her. She was fun.

“We can try,” Wylla said, “if we can find her.”

They did, and though she seemed a bit reluctant to Bran, she agreed to ride with them, so they got Ser Rodrick to give them some guards and then they set out.

Bran had been looking forward to it, because Wylla and Randa together promised a fun ride, but once they left the walls of Winterfell, there was a sort of awkward silence Bran did not want. When there was silence, he was thinking of his father.

“Why don’t you say anything?” He asked Myranda angrily. “You’ve barely spoken to me since...since...” since Father died, but Bran didn’t want to say it.

Wylla shot him a concerned look, and Myranda looked startled. “I'm sorry, Bran,” she said after a moment. “I just...I just don’t know what to say. I’m not good with grief. I feel for you, I do, I just...”

“I don’t want you to talk about grief!” Bran replied, even angrier now. “I want you to cheer me up!”

Myranda seemed taken aback. “Oh. Then...I can try? Do you...do you want to hear some stories?”

“Funny stories,” Bran elaborated. Maybe it was wrong to laugh after Father died, but he needed something.

Myranda still looked unsure, but she started to tell him about how she was flirting with one of their men and how he’d bee so fascinated by her he had walked into a horse and the horse had almost thrown Ser Rodrick, and Bran actually gave a little giggle.

“You should teach me to flirt, Randa,” Wylla declared.

Myranda gave her a surprised look. “What?”

“I know it’s too late for Robb,” Wylla explained, “and anyway it wouldn’t have worked because of the babies and everything, but there’ll be someone else, and I want to know how to flirt! I’m sure Robb never even knew I liked him, he sees me so much like a sister, because I never knew how to show him that I didn’t see him as a brother at all!”

Myranda suddenly seemed to grow more serious. “I can teach you,” she said, “but it won’t work every time. Some men just won’t like you, and nothing you do will change it, and some will only ever like you for one night – forgive me, my lord,” she added to Bran.

“I’m not a child,” Bran protested, feeling very interested in the conversation.

“Of course, pardon me. In any case, Wylla...you have to be careful with it. Some men won’t be interested, and some will be too interested.”

“You are never careful,” Wylla pointed out stubbornly.

Here was a strange expression in Randa’s face before she said: “I’m nineteen, and I know what I’m doing. I’ve had practice. I can tell which men are safe and which are not, and recognize which are too drunk to approach, I know when to get scarce. These things are even more important to learn then to learn how to flirt.”

“But I don’t want to flirt with everyone, like you do!” Wylla protested, then flushed. “Sorry.”

Myranda only laughed. “No, you are right. But even if you are only looking for your one true love, you will need some practice before that, and you need to know who it is safe to practice on.”

Wylla thought about that, then nodded. “All right. Teach me that, too.”

“I will.”

And then she started, and Bran thought that would be interesting, he really did, and felt like a grown-up listening to a conversation like this, only it was quite like listening to Maester Luwin speak about history, and not even the interesting history, the fighting stories or the scary stories. It was like listening to the kissing stories Sansa liked, and Bran was growing more and more impatient. This was supposed to cheer him up!

“Let’s go back,” he interrupted Myranda loudly. “I’m bored.”

Both girls immediately looked guilty. “I’m sorry, Bran,” Wylla said. “I will ask Myranda some other time to explain all of this. Do you want to race?”

“I’m riding a pony,” Bran said angrily. “Of course I don’t want to race, you would win!”

The girls exchanged an uncertain look, and Summer whined a little.

Bran immediately turned to him. “What is it?” he asked the wolf. “Had something happened?”

Then he realized he didn’t need to ask – he could simply slip into his skin and see. He knew he wasn’t supposed to do it in front of people who weren’t family, and that it was dangerous to do it from atop his pony, but in that moment he didn’t care.

There didn’t seem to be anything the matter with Summer, but Bran checked carefully before slipping back into himself, proud when he realized he kept his seat on the pony.

That was before he noticed the way the girls were looking at him.

“What?” He asked, trying to mask his guilt with more anger.

“What was that, Bran?” Wylla asked, sounding a little panicked. “It was like – like you were completely frozen for a moment...”

Bran gave a forced laugh. “What?” he asked. “No, I was just...thinking. Thinking about Father.”

He felt even more guilty, for using Father’s death like this, as an excuse, but at least Wylla let it be, only nodding and giving him a sympathetic smile.

Myranda, on the other hand, was still looking at him, and Bran didn’t like the look in her eyes at all. She looked like she didn’t believe him, and like she wouldn’t leave it alone until she found out what happened.

Bran suddenly found himself hoping the Vale ladies would return home as soon as possible. Myranda, he should remember, was still related to Ysilla Royce, however distant the relation was. Who knew what she’d do if she discovered the truth.


	27. Barbrey VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbrey and the children make plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy day makes for a late update, sorry.
> 
> In case anyone still follows my chapter scheme and the way it mirrors canon, you know another Tyrion chapter should be here, and originally it was, but it was honestly superfluous, so we’re jumping straight to Barbrey instead.

It had been a fortnight since the news of Ned’s death arrived, and Barbrey decided it was time.

They had spent the fortnight mostly in mourning, in their various ways, as much as they could. But Bran’s lessons had resumed two days ago, when it became clear a distraction would serve him better than endless time to be alone with his grief. Robb had been forced to focus on practicalities much sooner, as she taught him the little that was required to take over Winterfell and the North completely, not just as the stand-in as he had before. She would have liked to wait longer for that, but she knew it was important for Robb’s subjects to see him taking control, and to avoid any suspicion it was her pulling the strings in the background. It did not matter so much with Ned, because no one doubted his ability to make his own choices, but with a boy who was freshly fifteen, the situation was quite different. She could offer advice, but she could never do too much, not publicly at least. Robb needed to step into Ned’s role smoothly and firmly, so that there were no questions.

As for Jon, he now trained even more determinedly and ferociously with his sword. Both of the elder boys had switched to live steel completely now, after their father’s death, and Jon’s anger manifested in the viciousness in which he attacked the training dummies. Barbrey was reassured that at least he seemed capable of controlling himself when facing living opponents.

Sansa had come to Barbrey herself just the day before, asking for a some occupation, a distraction for her mind. That was how Barbrey knew it was time.

She was not ready – she would never be completely ready – but they’d had enough time to mourn in peace.

Now it was time for action.

To that end, she called all of the older children to the lord’s solar, and said: “Am I right in assuming you all want to find out who killed your father, and avenge him?”

Three grim nods were her answer.

“Then someone will have to go to King’s Landing,” she said. She hated it – hated it with all she was – but there was no other way. The king had, of course, promised a thorough investigation, but Barbrey had absolutely no trust in his ability to conduct one. And they had no other allies there, or at least none should could trust this with. It was either leave Ned unavenged, or go south. And he did deserve at least an attempt, however risky It might be.

“I’ll go,” Robb said immediately, just as Barbrey had expected.

However, Sansa’s firm “no” was a pleasant surprise. 

She gave the girl a small smile to show her approval, and asked: “Why don’t you think Robb should go, Sansa?”

“He’s Lord Stark now,” she said in a voice that shook slightly. “If the person who killed Father wanted to hurt our house and they are still there, they could hurt him too.”

“Precisely,” Aunt Barbrey agreed. “Robb and Bran, together, are the future of House Stark now. They cannot be risked.”

“I will gladly go,” Jon said. “I’d be no loss for the inheritance.”

Barbrey sighed. “I’m sorry, Jon, but it _is_ true, and luckily for you, it also means there’s less of a chance they’d try to harm you, unless you discovered some too uncomfortable truths. You will have to be as careful as anyone in this respect, but otherwise, yes, you are a good choice. But you cannot go alone. Whoever goes will be going, among other things, to officially demand justice and to bring your father’s bones home, and for that, it needs to be a Stark in name as well as in blood.”

Sansa gave a nod, as if she had expected this all along. “I will go,” she said calmly.

This time it was Robb who said “no”, though it was more of shout in his case.

“And why not, Robb?” Barbrey asked him mildly. It was not that she did not hate the idea, just as much as she hated the idea of Jon going south, but it was the notion of Robb hating it more that irritated her – and, she could tell, irritated Sansa as well.

“Sansa is only eleven! It’s my job to protect her!” Robb said vehemently.

Sansa frowned at him. “I’m almost twelve-” she began.

Barbrey waved it aside. “That matters little,” she said. “One year does not make any difference. But, Robb, she will be under guard, and will have Jon and both of their wolves to protect her. She will not be expected to act on her own. The one and only thign Sansa will be asked to do is the official requests of the king. There is no danger for her in that. And much like Jon, she is safer. If you and Bran were dead, she would be very valuable, the potential key to the north, as her children would inherit it, but as it is, as a woman, she is much safer. Even her value as a hostage is limited by that, and so she is much less likely to find someone plotting to do her harm.”

Robb was still scowling, and Sansa put a hand on his arm. “Please, Robb,” she said. “I want to go. I want to help our family. I was willing to marry Joffrey to-” but then she paused. “What about the betrothal?”

Barbrey nodded in appreciation. “That is one of the reasons it will be good for you to go. We need to find out what the king intends with it, and if he still means to go through, you need to beg him for a reprieve from leaving home for so long. We will use Robb’s betrothal as an excuse for why he did not come to King’s Landing himself, and you can use the upcoming wedding as the reason for why you need to return home, too. I think the king will find it much harder to refuse your tearful begging than he would Robb’s manly request.”

Sansa gave a serious nod. “I will do what I can, Aunt,” she said. “Should I write to my ladies’ parents, ask them for their leave to let them accompany me?”

“We will do better than that,” Barbrey explained. “Let your ladies know that our journey to King’s Landing will take us through Gulltown, and that we will stay in port for a day. If their parents wish to see their daughters in person, speak to them, to decide whether to give them leave to accompany you, they will have a chance.”

Sansa’s eyes brightened a little, at the hope, Barbrey thought, of seeing her friends’ home. “When will we set out?” She asked.

“Ser Wylis and his wife are on their way here, to negotiate the betrothal,” Barbrey replied with a nod to Robb. “After that is done, we are free to leave. I will tell you when to write to the Vale.”

Sansa only nodded. 

“How many will we take with us?” Jon asked, his mind ever on the practicalities.

“Apart from those of Sansa’s companions that wish to go, and whose parents will allow it,” Barbrey replied, “it will only take about fifty riders, I should say. The entire Stark household that went South is still there and will add to Sansa’s retinue there once she arrives, and fifty should be more than enough for the journey. Robb...”

The boy immediately nodded. “I will call for reinforcement from Castle Cerwyn and other nearby houses to help defend Winterfell in the meantime.”

“Good,” she agreed. “Then our journey should present no risks. We will leave as soon as the betrothal is arranged.”

“We?” Jon asked, his eyes widening, sounding hopeful.

“Yes, we,” Barbrey confirmed. “Robb has Lord Poole and Ser Rodrick to advice him, and he will be staying home. You will need me more, and I’m not throwing you into the viper’s nest without help.”

And if someone else has to die for that investigation, she swore to herself, it will be me, not you.

Jon appeared relieved, as did Sansa. Robb, on the other hand, was understandably worried, and so she sent the others away to have some privacy with him. “Robb,” she said, “I have complete faith in your ability to maintain your role for a few moons without my advice, and if something unexpected happens, I am only a raven away. Remember, you have been taking care of everything here for the past near half a year.”

“With you always by my side,” he replied, sounding like he was trying very hard to mask his fear. She embraced him, and then looked him in the eye.

“You have been needing my help less and less as the moons passed,” she told him. “You know all the essentials. Just always remember, do not be hasty. That is your one great fault as a lord, Robb, and if you can but guard against it, you will make your father proud.” Then she smiled. “Lady Wynafryd, too, can be a stabilizing influence in time, I believe.”

Robb flushed at that. “I...yes, I think she...” he bit his lip, and trailed off.

Barbrey laughed, once again honestly cheered by such an artless display of young man’s nerves before an older bride. In these dark days, it seemed strangely innocent.

“I have noticed you have begun to spend more time together,” she commented. She had been about to tell Robb to spend some time with his almost-betrothed and had been pleasantly surprised when she found out he was already doing so on his own.

“Yes,” Robb muttered, still flushing.

“And?” Barbrey asked, trying to mask her impatience. They needed this marriage to work.

“She is...you were right, Aunt, she is ready to be the lady of Winterfell..much more ready than I am to be its lord, I think sometimes.”

Barbrey gave him a good-natured smile, and refrained from pointing out that it had actually been Sansa who had argued that, even though Barbrey of course agreed. “Well, she _is_ a bit older than you,” she said instead.

“I know. I know I will have to try hard, to be worthy of her.”

Barbrey frowned a little at that. “You are a Stark of Winterfell,” she replied, “so of course you are worthy of her. If you strive to be better, you should do so primarily for your people, not for your wife.”

Robb flushed. “Of course, I...”

She sighed. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it, Robb. Just remember, Wynafryd can help you, but you remain the lord here. She is a Manderly, and was raised southern in many ways, and it would not do to fall too much under her sway. The bannermen would not appreciate it.”

Now Robb was frowning. “I’m not falling under anyone’s sway, Aunt, I’m simply getting to know my betrothed – whom you suggested!”

“I know, Robb,” she replied sharply. She would not be chastised by him. “I am simply advising you to be cautious. What did I just say your one great flaw was?”

That made him flush again, and he nodded. “Of course, Aunt,” he said, and shuffled out of her solar soon after.

When he was gone, she sighed again and rubbed her temples. It was a narrow balance with him. In some ways, she always felt she was walking a tightrope. It was easier with the other children – she served as their mother in all the ways that counted. But Robb remembered the Tully woman too well, was too much like her in nature whatever she tried to tell Sansa, and he had never accepted Barbrey’s role as fully as the others. For a long time after she came to Winterfell, he wanted to have nothing to do with her, and even after he came to terms with her, there had always been more distance there. He valued her advice, just as he valued the advice of Vayon or Ser Rodrick, but there was not the same kind of innate trust the other children had with her.

Sometimes, she could not prevent the thought that everything would be easier if Jon was the heir.

It was only ever an idle thought, of course, and she would never try to usurp Ned’s oldest trueborn son in any way, but still, it was difficult not to think it. Calm, cautious Jon, who was so much less prone to rashness or impulsiveness. It was not that he never was rash, but compared to Robb, he was the very picture of an even temper. He was less prickly, too, could listen to advice served in a more straightforward manner. And, Barbrey was honest enough to admit, he was more like her, and perhaps even more importantly, not at all like the Tully woman.

But she had promised herself, when she came to Winterfell, to try her best not to see Lady Catelyn in the children, and she had done what she could ever since. And she would continue to do so. Robb would do well in Winterfell without her, and he would do well in his marriage, and the future of House Stark would be firm and secure.

With that hope in mind, she headed to the godswood.


	28. Jon V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Wylis and Lady Leona come to Winterfell to negotiate the betrothal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and an even busier day apparently means no update at all. Sorry. I hope you weren't worried, it would be embarassing to stop posting three chapters before the end of this instalment lol.

Jon was waiting in Winterfell’s courtyard with his siblings and Aunt Barbrey. He was a little nervous – ever since Ysilla arrived and reacted to him the way she had, he was worried abut other people coming and doing the same. Wynafryd and Wylla had never been anything but nice to him, but it didn’t mean their parents would be the same.

He shifted on his feet, and finally he saw the riders approaching. It wasn’t a big group, only about twenty in total, and it didn’t take Jon long to identify Ser Wylis among them. He’d heard Lord Manderly was fat, but hadn’t known his son was just as so. They said Lord Manderly couldn’t sit a horse any more, and Jon thought it a wonder Ser Wylis could.

His wife was plump, too, but compared to him she was positively slender. They both dismounted and paid obeisance to Robb, who did a decent job of not looking too uncomfortable, and then introductions were made. Jon let out a careful sigh of relief when the couple reacted to his name with a simple nod.

The formalities done, they embraced their daughters and, accompanied by them, retreated to their accommodation to get refreshed after the journey.

“So?” Jon asked Robb with a grin once they were done. “How do you like your future good-parents?”

Robb looked a little uncertain. Jon thought of saying he better hoped Wynafryd would not grow fat like her father once she got older, but it seemed discourteous, so he stayed silent. 

“There’s hardly anything to judge on, so far,” Aunt Barbrey commented. “And good parents are not so important for a man, in any case. Robb will never live with them, as Sansa would were she marrying their son.”

Jon gave a sheepish nod, because his aunt was right. He would have to wait until the feast to know something of their guests. Not that he would be in the best place, sitting on the edge of the table as he would be, but perhaps he could catch something at least.

When the evening came, however, Jon found that Ser Wylis, especially, made him uncomfortable. The man was very formal, and that reminded him of Lady Stark. He was not so unpleasant with it by far, but still, it stirred bad memories. He thought maybe it would stir them in Robb, too, but then perhaps they would be a little less bad. 

In any case, Robb was seated next to Wynafryd’s mother, and that would likely be less worrying. Though Lady Leona seemed like an anxious woman, and Jon had to wonder how these two people raised Wynafryd and Wylla. He could see little of either of their parents in either of them. He wondered about Lord Manderly, and if he would find more similarity there.

Meanwhile, Sansa was charming Robb’s future good father as only she could.

“I was deeply saddened to hear of your father’s death, my lady,” Ser Wylis was saying at the moment, loudly enough that it could be heard even at Jon’s end of the table. “he was a good, honourable man, and the North will miss him dearly. He was our pillar of support.”

“He was,” Sansa agreed evenly, in a much more measured tone that Jon had to strain to hear, “but I have complete faith that my brother will be just as strong, and just as honourable.”

“Of course, my lady! I would never mean to imply anything to the contrary...”

Jon gave a small sigh, and Lady Ryella, who was seated next to him because Wynafryd had been moved to sit by her father’s side, lightly touched his hand, exchanging a compassionate look with him.

They had grown even closer since his father’s death, and though Jon felt guilty for finding any reason to rejoice in it, he was grateful all the same. Lady Ryella had been a steady pillar of support to him, always able to enter into his feelings perfectly, even those about his mother.

Jon had hesitated with confiding in her about that, remembering how she’d at first judged him for being a bastard, but in the end, well, he needed to tell someone, and his siblings and Aunt Barbrey had grief of their own, they didn’t need to contend with his own personal problems as well.

So he’d caved, on one of their walks in the godswood, and told her how it hurt him that now that his lord father was dead, Jon would never know the truth about his mother. “She is likely dead,” he said, “but still, I would have liked to know.”

And a deep corner of his mind always hoped she was not, and judging by Lady Ryella’s look, she was well aware of it. “I am certain that if she still lived, your father would have told you,” she said softly, regretfully, “if only so that you had a chance to meet her. After all, people can die unexpectedly, and he would not wish to risk that she would do so before you had the opportunity.”

Jon supposed it made sense, but still, he couldn’t help thinking there might have been some reason his father would have hesitated, and that perhaps, just perhaps…

He shook such thoughts off, and focused on the present. Some of Winterfell’s best wine had been taken out for the feast, imported all the way from the Reach, and Jon savoured it before he asked Lady Ryella how she liked it.

“It is a bit too sweet for me,” she said, “but then I understand my tastes are not the usual.”

That was true enough – almost everything was too sweet for Lady Ryella. “Would you like me to find you something else?”

She smiled at him, the sort of smile he felt was reserved only for him. “No, I am quite well, thank you.”

Jon glanced towards his brother. “Do you think it is going well?”

“It seems well enough – no one is shouting, and they all look well pleased.”

“Even with the wine,” Jon said with a small smile, and Lady Ryella rewarded him with a little laugh.

“Like I said,” she remarked, “my tastes are not the usual.” She paused. “However, I feel I have quite had my fill of feasting for tonight. Would you accompany me for a bit of fresh air?”

Jon obligingly rose and gave her his arm, and they exited the hall.

“Come to the godswood with me,” she whispered to him once they were outside.

Jon hesitated – being there alone at night would be incriminating, he knew – but then no one would know, Ysilla was still in the hall and so could not tell on them, and he knew neither of them would do anything dishonourable. So he went.

Once they were safely alone, and deep enough inside that their voices would not carry out, she turned to him and took his hand.

As always, it sent a shiver down his spine and started a fire in his belly, and with the night around them it seemed so much more dangerous, so much more tempting. He thought about pulling away, as much as he hated the thought, but before he could, she spoke.

“Jon,” she said, “we are running out of time.”

He frowned and opened his mouth, but she continued: “We will be leaving Winterfell soon, and will have little privacy while on the way, and I don’t know if my father will let me go to King’s Landing. We might not have many other chances, and of course you know we cannot marry, so I simply wished to...” she trailed of, and just looked at Jon for a moment. Perhaps she expected some response, but he could give none, his breath catching in his throat, and then she leaned in and gave him a soft kiss on the lips.

If he had thought that holding her hand started a fire in his belly, then her lips against his were like a roaring inferno, and he made a sound, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, and pulled her closer to himself without any conscious decision, pressed his lips more tightly to hers, getting lost in the sensation of her body pressed to him, of her softness under her closed, of feeling her breasts-

He felt his loins stirring, and tore himself away, scrambling from her. “My lady,” he said, breathing hard, “forgive me, but I can’t- we can’t-”

Her eyes looked immeasurably sad. “Of course,” she said. “I know we cannot, and I was not suggesting it. I simply...wished for a kiss, while I still can.”

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. “I know, my lady,” he said then, and decided to admit the shameful secret he’d been keeping since the first time she’d touched him. “I...I fear myself. You are so beautiful, and I- I admire you so much, and it is simply...”

“I do not fear you, Jon,” she returned mildly. “You are not some beast.”

Jon was not so certain of that. He thought of his shameful fantasies late at night before he fell asleep, of how he could not keep Lady Ryella out of his thoughts when he attended to himself, and of how he’d actually considered, once or twice, seeking out a whore in Winter Town simply in hopes that it would make his passion less. Sometimes, he thought he was the worst kind of beast. Even Ghost, he felt, had more self-control than him.

“Perhaps you should,” he said aloud.

“No,” she insisted. “We have been alone so many times, and you never tried anything, even though I see how you look at me. We are here now, in the middle of the night, and you would never have touched me had I not kissed you first. It is true what I said to you before, Jon: you are the most honourable man I have ever met. I can think of no other I would trust to be with alone in the godswood at night.”

Jon felt like the worst kind of impostor in that moment, as if he had somehow lied to her the whole time he had known her, and he did not know how to make her see apart from speaking about things one could never speak of in front of a lady.

She saw it in his eyes, and gave him a small smile. “If I took off my clothes now,” she said, “what would you do?”

Jon almost choked. “Leave, my lady,” he said after a moment, though ‘run away’ would have been more exact.

“You see? How many other men in the world, do you think, would make that choice?”

“My father would have,” he said quietly, choking a little.

“Oh Jon,” she said, and came to him again, but this time to offer him a simple platonic embrace.

He let himself be held, then, and tried not to think of anything, to just get lost in the comfort...until he heard Ghost growl.

He turned around, and saw Ysilla standing there, with a vindictive smile upon her face.

“Well,” she said, and her tone was more vicious than anything Jon had ever heard from her, “imagine that. I’m not surprised at the bastard, but I expected better from a Belmore. This story will be immensely popular in the Vale, believe you me.” She laughed, a mean, nasty laugh. “A Belmore girl with a bastard! For shame!”

Jon was shaking, and Ghost was growling and he had to put a hand on his neck to prevent him from attacking Ysilla. Ryella, meanwhile, grit her teeth and said: “Do you know nothing of honour, Ysilla?”

The older girl scoffed. “You should be asking yourself that, should you not?” She asked

Jon opened his mouth, to say he knew not what, when he heard steps around him and turned, only to see Alyssa come from among the trees.

Her expression was more grim than he’d ever seen it, and she was looking directly at Ysilla.

“I have been here the entire time,” she said firmly, “and I can attest that nothing dishonourable had happened. Are you going to publicly doubt my word, my lady of Royce?”

Jon could see Ysilla’s anger in her burning eyes ad she turned on her heel and left. Alyssa, meanwhile, was looking at them with a face completely inscrutable before she gestured to the door and, shamed and guilty and terrified, Jon followed the terrible girl out of the godswood.

The knowledge that his father would be ashamed, he knew, would follow him more doggedly than Ysilla’s hatred could.


	29. Tyrion V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion plans for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people in the comments were worried about the small number of chapters remaining and how everything could be resolved in such a short time, so let me reassure you: this fic is just the first installment. There's going to be a bunch more (I plotted out eight books total, but I have no idea if my motivation will last long enough to write that much out; it should, however, last for four books at least, I think, since I have rough drafts for that much and I really like where they're going). Next chapter is just the end of the first part of the story.

It had been a moon’s turn since Lord Stark’s funeral, and the king’s rage still had not cooled.

Tyrion had been in King’s Landing when Jon Arryn died, and there, his grief had taken the form of sadness, but also almost philosophical acceptance. Arryn, after all, had been an old man.

Eddard Stark, however, had been five and thirty, and had been murdered without a doubt. And there was no calming the king.

He had threatened to execute Varys and all the other members of his small council more than once, if they didn’t deliver the man behind the killing. He ordered a dozen different investigations, though he took part in none of them himself ever since the last of Stark’s attackers had been found dead, and he had taken to drinking even more than before. There were other differences, though: he had gone back to training with the hammer, which he now carried with him everywhere, and had acquired a taster who tried everything the king ate or drank these days.

Some were already beginning to whisper he would go as mad as Aerys had been. They were beginning to say it was the curse of the Iron Throne.

Tyrion personally thought that with the situation he was forced to live in, it was rather a wonder it had taken him so long to snap. 

He had little respect for Robert, but even he had to admit he could hardly envy the man. For all it was hard to see someone squander everything you believed you could excel at, it was still no less true that Robert was as ill suited to ruling as Tyrion would have been to fighting, and Tyrion could hardly blame him for not relishing the role. And to have both his father figure and his best friend die in so short a time one after the other...

In fact, Tyrion himself had felt affected by Lord Stark’s death, more than he would have expected to be. Not personally – Stark had despised him and made no secret of it – but because of what it meant for the realm. There was someone killing off Hands of the King, and that person was unlikely to stop being a danger after the first two – after all, the only thing the two men had in common was a childhood influence on Robert, and if that had been the problem, the murderer would not have waited this long.

Not that the stability of the realm was his task to worry about, but the recent journey notwithstanding, he liked his comforts. Robert had been made unstable enough by the last two murders, if a third – and of his own blood brother, no less – followed, it might throw him entirely into madness. And while Tyrion had only been a child at the time of the Rebellion, he knew enough from Jaime to know that a mad king affected every single person in the realm, and particularly someone as close to him as his wife’s brother. No, Tyrion had no wish to watch the realm descend into chaos that would affect his own life...and if it had to happen, he at least wanted to be as far away from King’s Landing as possible.

He thought of his plan to find what books on magic he could in the Red Keep library and then move on to Oldtown. Would that be far enough, he wondered? Surely at least to begin with? He could relocate there, and then if Jaime sent word that Robert was becoming worse or something else dangerous was afoot, he could choose where to go from there – back to Casterly Rock, or, if it seemed necessary, even leave Westeros for a time – Oldtown was an important port, and there were ships there that could take him anywhere.

He doubted it would come to that, though. If nothing else, his sister would murder Robert the moment she thought he was endangering her son’s rule.

Nevertheless, this was a good plan, and so Tyrion directed his steps to the library, to continue the search for books on magic he had been pursuing somewhat haphazardly and not very diligently until now.

Soon after entering the library, however, he found someone he would have never expected there: his very own brother, his sister not far from him, looking, of all things, at the books.

“Cersei?” He said, shocked.

Her lip curled upon seeing him, and she did not reply.

He waddled closer, and looked at what book she was perusing. Poisons. Of course. Was she already thinking of a more permanent solution?

“It had occurred to me,” she said, and he was shocked she felt he even deserved an explanation, “that with the Starks coming, it might be good to have explanation to give them, whether true or not. Since even an idiot could come to the conclusion that the two Hands’ deaths are connected, I am trying to find something plausible to offer them as an explanation for Jon Arryn’s.”

“Of course,” he said, not willing to think about whether he believed her just now. “The Starks are coming?”

“Yes, for the bones, they say,” she replied, “but as the Tully woman could have easily taken them herself with her guards here, I assume there’s another reason. They’ll want answers, and there might be some at court only too willing to give them, and not ones we like. I thought it best we provide some of our own.”

When, he wondered, had his sister become so cautious? Was it when Robert started to take actual care with his safety, and she realized it might not be quite as simple as she’d thought to get rid of him once he got too much in the way?

“And what have you found?” He wondered.

She waved her hand. “Oh, it could have been anything. There are a dozen different poisons that could have made him die. I’m now looking for something that will sound plausible enough to make them stop asking questions.”

Pycelle, no doubt, would confirm whatever she told him to. “You might consider picking something that will direct their attention to a particular culprit, too,” he pointed out mildly, “preferably one as far away from our family as possible.”

His sister seemed to find Stark’s death equal parts amusing and frustrating, as if it interrupted some plans of hers, which made Tyrion very much wonder. Stark could have hardly been her ally in anything, so what was it that his death had fouled up for her? It was also reassuring, though, in that it gave him hope she had truly not been behind it. But still, old Stark at least must have suspected her if only because he disliked her, as had been made plain enough in Winterfell. And if he’d shared his suspicions with Lady Dustin...well, Stark could have never done anything particularly productive with his suspicions, but Tyrion was not so confident when it came to his friend. He could not help feeling that the woman, if she wanted, could be very dangerous indeed.

Cersei narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you have someone in mind?”

Tyrion thought about it for a moment. “Not yet,” he said slowly, “but give me time.”

A plan was beginning to emerge in his mind.

Tyrion was of two minds about seeing the Starks now. He was uncomfortable with the idea of grieving children, and with the idea of someone he’d last seen so happy now being the very opposite. But of course, there was little chance the smallest boy would be among the party, and he was the one Tyrion had talked to the most – well, he and the bastard, and Lady Dustin. Was there any chance for those, he wondered? He’d like to speak to them again, he thought, even in their grief, and he’d like to hear about the progress the children have made in their warging.

Thinking about it more, however, he found that he was unsure if he’d be welcome. He remembered how Stark had disliked his whole family and how he had had to fight against it somewhat when he arrived in Winterfell for this first time, and now Stark had been killed in the capital that was effectively controlled by Lannisters, something that if the remaining Starks didn’t know yet, they would find out as soon as they arrived.

Tyrion would hardly be slighted if they refused to speak to him, but...he was very curious about the warging. How many chances like this would he have again, in his entire life? None, almost certainly, and he was unwilling to let it go just because someone in the city was scheming. After all, someone was always scheming, and it even seemed like it hadn’t been his sister this time.

But if he wanted to hear more about the warging, he needed to establish himself firmly as an ally tot he Starks, who would, after all, be isolated and lacking in them once they arrived, especially given the...atypical situation of Lady Stark. And there was one fool-proof way to do that:. he had to find some proof as to the real killer, or at least proof his family had nothing to do with it. Surely they would appreciate that. 

And his sister might even be helpful in that, if her sudden interest in ensuring she didn’t have more enemies than strictly necessary lasted longer than an afternoon.

Yes, he would find the culprit for the Starks, or someone who seemed likely to be a culprit at the very least, and would gain their trust – and so more information about the warging – and a favour owed by Cersei both. The favour could then hopefully be turned into her giving him a task in Oldtown, to allow him to get out of the city if Robert got significantly worse.

After all, it did not much matter whether he had time to become a full fledged mad king of whether Cersei managed to murder him before that, If she did. Joffrey would succeed him on the throne, and he would scarcely be any better. No, Tyrion would wait for the Starks, do what he needed to do there, and then depart for a well deserved holiday in the south, relying on letters to describe Bran Stark’s progress in taking over all the animals around Winterfell.

In spite of the grim atmosphere that had ruled King’s Landing lately, Tyrion felt better about his future now than he had for a long time. After all, for the first time, it had more than simply wine and whores in it – though he hoped it would still contain plenty of both. Oldtown, after all, was not far from Arbour. The more he thought about it, the more he was irritated with himself that he had not relocated there a long time ago.

“Yes, my dear sister,” he said to Cersei, looking up at her with a smile he knew she would find particularly repulsive, “I am very willing to help you preserve the family honour in this.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you try to use this against me-”

He put up his hands. “Me? To what end?” He decided it would be better to be upfront, as Cersei would never believe in disinterested help from him. “I want something from you, dear sister, and this is me hoping I will get it in reward.”

Instead of a response, she thrust the book she was holding at him. “Get to work,” she said, and walked out of the library like the queen she was, Jaime following and giving him an apologetic look.

Tyrion simply sighed, and peered at the book. He supposed it was a place to start.


	30. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leaves Winterfell with her friends and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this is a day late too, but there's a surprise bonus!

The feast in honour of Robb’s betrothal was the biggest they’d had since the king had been in Winterfell.

It was not quite as joyful, of course – Father’s death hung over them all, and perhaps it always would, or at least for long years to come. Still, Robb had invited Lords Cerwyn and Hornwood, as well as Ser Helman Tallhart, as those closest to Winterfell, to witness him promise himself to a woman of the North. The High Table was, therefore, more crowded than usual. Apart from fostering loyalty, this invitation was also meant to serve the purpose of gauging the bannermen’s response to the betrothal. Not that Robb or Aunt Barbrey meant to back out of it, but it was good to be prepared for whatever might come.

So far, as far as Sansa could see, the reactions were good. She was seated next to Ser Helman on one side, and she had seen him be nothing but courteous. She talked to him of the barrowlands, of which she knew much from her aunt, and he was happy enough with that line of conversation, describing the differences in his own, northern part of it from what Lady Dustin ruled.

“And then there’s the wolfswoof, of course,” he said, “Lady Dustin needs not deal with that. Anyone else might well regret it for the lost game, but I believe she does not – there is less freedom to ride in the wolfswood!”

“And yet we ride almost nowhere else, my lord,” she replied with a smile.

“You do?” He seemed surprised by the answer. “Why is that, my lady?”

Sansa thought about it. “Do you know, I have never wondered, my lord? I will have to ask. Surely the open lands to the east would be better?”

Of course there were many villages in that direction, and fields, but there was still space enough between them, Sansa thought. The North was not quite so fertile, especially not this part of it.

They spoke on, and even on the topic of the betrothal Ser Helman only had praise to offer for it happening so swiftly, making sure the line was secure ‘after that terrible tragedy’. Sansa could see no sign of displeasure in him at all.

Of course, she knew perfectly well that he was not the main danger, nor was Lord Hornwood or, least of all, Cerwyn. There were only three houses they needed to worry about: Umber, Karstark and Bolton.

All three had the purest blood of First Men in their veins, and were the northernmost houses – alongside House Glover, but its current lord was no danger to anyone, she knew, and perfectly loyal. Those three, however...well, they were all big proud houses who considered the Manderlys too southern, she knew. None of them had any daughters of their own that would suit – Alys Karstark was already betrothed, and all of the Umber daughters were too young, not yet flowered, and of course Lord Bolton had, at the moment, no legitimate children at all – but it did not follow they would be any happier with the match for all that. The Umbers especially. Sansa knew that Aunt Barbrey worried, and that led Sansa to worry in turn. After all, the match had been her idea, and if it led to grief for Robb, she would feel responsible, too.

Still, that was another good reason for having the three lords here now. It allowed Wynafryd to charm them at her leisure. With Lord Glover perfectly loyal, Lord Ryswell following his daughter’s lead, Lady Dustin and the Manderlys of course on their side, it left only only the Reeds, who were always loyal, and the two Flint houses – and the Mountain Clans, but they did not care about such things.

Flints, though...Sansa wondered about them. They were the blood of First Men too, she knew.

She contemplated their possible reaction for a time, but then she shook herself. This was not for her to focus on at the moment. This would be Robb’s battle, and Wynafryd's, while she was called elsewhere, to fight battles of her own, and she should be thinking of lords of King’s Landing rather than those of the North.

She had spent the weeks since she had volunteered to go south buried in books on genealogies, learning about the lords of the Crownlands and about every member of the Small Council and every other person she knew to be at court. She could find little reliable information about their characters, but she could at least find out who they were tied to by marriage, and who they might have a feud against, because of a duel, a relative killed in the war, or anything at all along those lines.

Her Vale ladies were invaluable help in this. Myranda had heard quite a lot of gossip from the Arryn household over the years as they passed the Gates of the Moon, stories about the court and what happened there. Ryella had good memory for her father’s war stories. And Alyssa sat with her poring over the books, speculating about which grudges would still be relevant and which would have likely been forgotten, and which marriage ties were treasured and which were ignored.

Sansa could not imagine having to face King’s Landing without them, and the possibility that they would all leave her in Gulltown terrified her. 

Lady whined under the table, sensing her distress, and Sansa absently petted her, forcing herself to bring her mind back to the feast. “Tell me, Ser Helman,” she said, “how often do you actually see wolves in the Wolfswood? Because I don’t remember any until my father found our direwolves...”

Ser Helman began to tell her stories keenly enough, and Sansa was grateful for a chance to be lost in them, to listen to something that was not her own fears.

They returned, however, when the feast was over and Sansa was alone in her room. In a mere day, they would all be leaving Winterfell, except for Wynafryd and her mother.

All of her companions would go with Sansa, because they would be travelling through White Harbor, where they would leave Ser Wylis and Wylla behind – as per the betrothal agreement, she was Ser Wylis’ new heir, and so he wanted her back in the city – and then through Gulltown, where they would leave Ysilla behind, finally, and talk to the rest of the ladies’ parents to arrange who could come south with her and who could not.

Sansa prayed for Alyssa, at least, to be able to go. She knew she was the youngest, so there was the least chance of that, but she still prayed for it very much. King’s Landing was going to be difficult, she knew that, and she would dearly appreciate the help of her friend.

It was in the middle of this prayer that the door to her room opened and someone slipped in, and Sansa raised her head, startled and a bit frightened – but it was only Aunt Barbrey.

“Are you still awake?” Her aunt wondered.

“Yes,” Sansa admitted, and after a moment, added quietly, “I was praying.”

“I am sorry to disturb you, then,” her aunt said. “Do you have your weirwood medallion?”

Sansa simply nodded, and showed her the wooden circle she held tightly in her hand. Aunt Barbrey had them cut from the heart tree for all three of them going south, saying that there were no weirwood trees in the south and so they had to bring them with them, if they wished to keep the protection of the gods. 

Jon had seemed a little sceptical, but their aunt had simply said grimly: “Your father thought it a superstition, too,” and after that he didn’t protest.

They’d all carved faces into their little circles, and Sansa’s came out even and serene, calming when she looked upon it. She truly hoped the gods could use it to hear her, even as far as in King’s landing.

“What were you praying for?” Her aunt asked.

Sansa felt she should say ‘success in the capital’, and flushed a little as she replied: “That Alyssa be allowed to come with me.”

Her aunt sighed. “The gods help those who help themselves, my sweet. We should only turn to them when matters are entirely out of our hands, otherwise we are simply being lazy, and why should gods reward laziness?”

Sansa had heard her say as much before, but… “And Alyssa coming with me is not out of my hands?”

“It is in her mother’s hands, but that does not mean you cannot convince her. You should work on preparing your arguments for Lady Waynwood for why Alyssa should be allowed to go south.”

That had not occurred to Sansa, but it was a good idea, and she liked it immediately. She would have to know as much as possible about Lady Waynwood to have good arguments prepared, of course, but that was of no matter. The journey to White Harbour would take them twenty days. In that time, she should have all the opportunity she needed to learn about Lady Waynwood. Alyssa wished to go south with her too, she knew, and she would be eager to help in any way she could. They could even plan some kind of strategy, she thought, and perhaps Aunt Barbrey would help – she seemed to like Alyssa, especially since she’d saved Jon and Ryella from Ysilla’s public accusation.

Sansa, too, valued her friend even more since then. She had liked her before, of course, enjoyed her company, but she hadn’t known if she could really trust her, not until that evening. Alyssa had left the feast and returned after a long while, and she looked shaken, immediately worrying Sansa, yet had refused to speak of it until the feast was over.

Then, she accompanied Sansa to her room and climbed into her bed, as they often did, and then whispered: “I was in the godswood.”

Sansa gave her a surprised look in the dark. Godswood in the dark sometimes scared even her, and for Alyssa, who had been reluctant to enter it at all mere few weeks ago, it must have been terrifying. “Why?” She asked.

“Jon and Ryella went there...and Ysilla tried to follow them.”

And then she’d told Sansa the whole story, how Aunt Barbrey had interrupted her conversation with Wylla at the feast to urgently whisper that she needed to follow Jon and Ryella now, before Ysilla got to them, and how she’d seen Myranda trying to stall Ysilla as she rushed to be there before her, and how she’d been so afraid.

“Too afraid,” she’d said. “I could barely make myself make a few steps deeper, and my only luck was that it’s so dark there Ysilla didn’t see me when she came in, and then of course I simply had to follow her, but-”

And to her horror, Sansa had seen she was on the verge of tears, and spent the rest of the evening comforting and thanking her friend.

She’d spent the morning after that upbraiding Jon for is carelessness, only to find out he’d already heard the same from Aunt Barbrey. He was devastated, and even more so because Aunt Barbrey had forbidden him from spending any time with Ryella at all until the departure. It had only been a few days, but she knew Jon and Ryella both suffered for it, knowing they might only have a little over a moon’s turn together left. Still, it was enough for Sansa to remember how afraid her friend had been to feel they both deserved it.

So, all in all, she could understand perfectly why Aunt Barbrey was giving her advice on how to keep Alyssa by her side.

“Thank you, Aunt,” she said aloud. “I’ll be sure to do that – but I think I will pray all the same.”

Aunt Barbrey smiled and kissed her on the forehead, and left the room, and Sansa turned back to the gods.

In the morning, the first thing she did was go and speak to Alyssa, and they set out riding close enough to each other that Sansa could hear every word Alyssa said over the clatter of the horses’ hooves.

Her plans engulfed her enough that she barely had time to say goodbye to Winterfell, and when she realized that, she looked behind herself with a bit of regret at the castle disappearing in the distance.

Well, no matter, she told herself firmly. She promised herself she would be back here in no time at all.

_END OF BOOK 1_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book 1 doesn't have an epilogue, though if it did Dany 5 from AGOT (where Viserys dies and the prophecy about the Stallion is made) would fit the mold pretty well, as it happens roughly at this point in the timeline.
> 
> As it is, this is it for book 1. But as you can see, this fic is already part of a series you can subscribe to and in fact, the short prologue of book 2 is already posted, sou you can subscribe directly to that story as well.
> 
> Book 1 was in many ways pretty prequelly in nature, setting up the scene, establishing the AU and so on. It's one of the reasons why I posted so fast, because I wanted that to be done as soon as possible so that we can get into the real meat of the story.
> 
> Thank you all for your support and comments (except the very few who were rude, lol) and I hope you'll stay with me for the next installment at least!


End file.
